€OL.  E.  D.  BAKER,  ORATOR,  POET.  SOLDIER,  AND  STATESMAN. 


-H  OREGON  N- 


LITERATURE 


JOHN  B.  HORNER,  fl.  M.,  LITT.  D., 

Professor  of  Rhetoric  and  English  Literature  in 
the  State  Agricultural  College  of  Oregon. 


Take  the  wings 

Of  morning,  pierce  the  Barcan  wilderness, 
Or  lose  thyself  in  the  continuous  woods 
Where  rolls  the  Oregon  .... 

BRYANT  :    Thanatopsis. 


CORVALLIS  : 

MDCCCXCIX 


II 


MAID 


COPYRIGHT  1899  BY  J.  B.  HORNER. 


TO  A  FRIEND. 

"  What  is  a  book  ?    Let  affection  tell; 
A  tongue  to  speak  for  those  ivho  absent  dwell, 
A  language  uttered  to  the  eye 
Which  envious  distance  would  in  vain  deny. 

"Formed  to  convey  like  an  electric  chain 
The  mystic  flashes,  the  lightning  of  the  brain, 
And  thrill  at  once  to  its  remotest  link 
The  throb  of  passion  by  the  printer's  ink.'1'1 

JOHN  BURNETT, 

Corvallis,  July  7,  1899. 


509 


BRECON  has  produced  more  genuine  litera- 
ture during  the  short  period  of  her  history, 
extending  back  only  fifty  years,  than  all  the  thir- 
teen American  colonies  wrote  in  a  century  and 
half.  Notwithstanding  this  fact,  she  is  the  oldest 
state  in  the  Union  that  has  not  collated  the  best 
things  written  by  her  sons  and  daughters.  This 
task  has  been  delayed  merely  for  want  of  time 
and  inclination.  No  one  did  it,  so  I  undertook  it. 
This  is  the  explanation. 

Kindly  attribute  the  objectionable  features  of 
this  pamphlet  to  the  youngest  printer  in  the  office. 

J.  B.  H. 


%iterature. 


Long  ago  the  scholars  of  the  East  passed  the 
lamp  of  learning  from  England  westward  to  Boston, 
the  front  door  of  America.  And  from  Boston  the 
lamp  lighted  the  way  of  the  pioneer  across  moun- 
tain chains,  mighty  rivers,  and  far-reaching  plains, 
till  the  radiance  of  its  beams  skirted  the  golden 
shores  of  our  majestic  ocean.  Then  it  was  that 
the  song  of  the  poet  and  the  wisdom  of  the  sage 
for  the  first  time  blended  in  beautiful  harmony  with 
the  songs  of  the  robin,  the  lark,  and  the  linnet,  of 
our  valley.  These  symphonies  floated  along  on 
zephyrs  richly  laden  with  aromas  fresh  from  the 
field  and  flowers  and  forests,  and  were  wafted 
heavenward  with  the  prayers  of  the  pioneer  to 
mingle  forever  in  adoration  to  the  God  of  the  land 
and  the  sea.  This  was  the  origin  and  the  begin- 
ning of  Oregon  literature. 

INFLUENCE  OF  PIONEER  LIFE. 

A  fearless  people  among  savages,  the  Oregon 
pioneers  surmounted  every  obstacle,  for  they  had 
graduated  from  the  hard  training  school  of  the 
plains  and  had  suffered  severe  discipline  known 
only  to  the  early  settler.  Hon.  George  H.  Wil- 
liams, attorney-general  of  President  Grant's  cab- 
inet, said:  "When  the  pioneers  arrived  here  they 


OREGON  LITERATURE. 


found  a  land  of  marvelous  beauty.  They  found  ex- 
tended prairies,  with  luxuriant  verdure.  They 
found  grand  and  gloomy  forests,  majestic  rivers, 
and  mountains  covered  with  eternal  snow;  but  they 
found  no  friends  to  greet  them,  no  homes  to  go 
to,  nothing  but  the  genial  heavens  and  the  gener- 
ous earth  to  give  them  consolation  and  hope.  I 
cannot  tell  how  they  lived;  nor  how  they  supplied 
their  numerous  wants  of  family  life.  All  these 
things  are  mysteries  to  everyone,  excepting  to 
those  who  can  give  their  solution  from  actual  ex- 
perience." But  of  this  one  thing  be  assured,  under 
these  trying  circumstances,  life  with  them  grew  to 
be  real,  earnest,  and  simple.  They  were  fearless, 
yet  God-fearing;  no  book  save  the  Bible,  Walker's 
dictionary,  Pilgrim's  Progress,  and  a  few  others 
of  like  sort;  solid  books,  solid  thought,  solid  men 
— three  elements  that  enter  into  substantial  liter- 
ature. 

A  recent  number  of  the  ''Daily  Oregonian"  tells 
us  that  the  original  type  of  the  Oregon  pioneer 
began  his  career  with  the  settlement  of  New  Eng- 
land«4n  1620,  and  he  ended  it  when  he  reached  the 
Pacific.  It  took  him  about  250  years  to  conquer 
nature  and  the  Indian  from  the  Atlantic  to  the 
Pacific.  The  Oregon  pioneer  in  his  deeds  outran 
even  the  prophetic  vision  of  the  great  American 
novelist  who  left  him  in  Nebraska  struggling  on  his 
way  along  the  Platte,  and  today  Nebraska  is  ten 
years  younger  in  statehood  than  Oregon  because 


OREGON  LITERATURE. 


the  Pacific,  found  time  to  turn  around  and  form  a 
state.  The  sterling  merit  of  the  Oregon  pioneers 
of  the  '405  may  be  measured  from  the  fact  that 
the  Oregonian  who  went  to  California  on  the  dis- 
covery of  gold  in  1848-49  included  a  number  of 
men,  like  Peter  Burnett,  who  obtained  honorable 
distinction  in  the  history  of  California.  The  gold 
fever  swept  a  vast  immigration  of  all  sorts  to  Cal- 
ifornia within  a  few  months,  but  as  a  whole  it  was 
far  inferior  in  mental  and  moral  quality  to  the  men 
who  laid  the  foundations  of  our  great  state. 

Immigration  steadily  increased  and  the  settle- 
ments gradually  grew,  so  that  all  the  woods  and 
all  the  valleys  became  peopled.  Only  the  bravest 
dared  to  undertake  the  long  journey  across  the 
plains,  and  only  the  wisest  and  the  strongest  sur- 
vived; hence  Oregon  was  early  peopled  with  the 
strongest,  the  wisest  and  the  bravest  of  the  new 
race.  And  while  there  may  have  been  no  Moses, 
no  Caesar,  no  Cromwell  among  them,  there  was 
a  large  sprinkling  of  such  men  as  Joe  Meek,  Gray 
the  historian,  United  States  Senator  Nesmith, 
Governor  Abernethy,  General  Joseph  Lane,  Doc- 
tor Laughlin,  and  Applegate,  the  sage  of  Yon- 
colla — men  with  warm  hearts,  teeming  brains, 
skillful  hands,  and  sinewy  arms.  And  the  women 
were  the  daughters  of  the  women  who  came  in  the 
Mayflower,  and  they  were  like  unto  them.  They 
spun  and  wove,  and  in  any  home  you  might  have 
seen  a  Priscilla  with  her  wheel  and  distaff  as  of  old. 


OREGON  LITERATURE. 


And,  although  the  legends  of  our  Aldens  and 
Priscillas  remain  as  yet  unwritten  and  unsung,  our 
own  proud  Oregon  will  some  day  raise  up  a  Long- 
fellow that  will  place  these  treasures-  among  the 
classics  of  the  age. 

INFLUENCE   OP   SCENERY. 

Critics  tell  us  that  literature  is  rather  an  image 
of  the  spiritual  world,  than  of  the  physical — of  the 
internal,  rather  than  the  external — that  mountains, 
lakes,  and  rivers,  are  after  all  only  its  scenery  and 
decorations,  not  its  substance  and  essence.  And  it 
is  true  that  a  man  will  not  necessarily  be  a  great 
poet  because  he  lives  at  the  foot  of  a  great  moun- 
tain— a  Hood,  a  Jefferson,  or  a  Shasta;  nor  being 
a  poet,  that  he  will  write  better  poems  than  others 
because  he  lives  where  he  can  hear  the  thundering 
falls  of  the  mighty  Willamette.  "Switzerland  is  all 
mountains;  yet  like  the  Andes,  or  the  Himalayas, 
or  the  Mountains  of  the  Moon  in  Africa,  it  has 
produced  no  extraordinary  poet."  But,  while 
mountains,  rivers,  and  valleys,  do  not  create  genius, 
no  one  can  deny  that  they  aid  in  developing  it. 
Emerson  tells  us  that  "the  charming  landscape  he 
saw  one  morning  is  undubitably  made  up  of  some 
twenty  of  thirty  farms.  Miller  owns  this  field, 
Lock  that,  and  Manning  the  woodland  beyond,  but 
none  of  them  owns  the  landscape.  There  is  a 
property  in  the  horizon  which  no  man  has  but  he 
whose  eye  can  integrate  all  the  parts — that  is  the 


OREGON  LITERATURE. 


poet."  The  poet  is  the  only  millionaire  that  is 
wealthy  enough  to  purchase  a  landscape.  Yet,  no 
man  or  woman  with  the  least  poetic  impulse  can 
entirely  escape  and  resist  the  inspiring  influences 
of  luxuriant  vegetation,  baln^y  air,  and  delightful 
scenery.  With  a  state  draine/i  on  the  north  by  the 
mighty  Columbia,  measured  on  the  east  by  rivers 
and  prairies  and  gold,  guarded  on  the  south  by  the 
sky-kissed  Siskiyous,  bathed  on  the  west  by  the 
sunset  seas;  a  state  dotted  here  and  there  by  the 
everlasting  peaks — the  sentinels  of  the  world  bound 
together  with  great  mountain  chains,  reveling  in 
delightful  valleys  beautifully  tessalated  with  charm- 
ing traceries — crystal  streams  winding  like  silvery 
threads  from  the  glaciers  far  above  as  if  seeking 
the  violets,  the  daisies,  and  the  witcheries  of  the 
lowlands,  ours  is  not  the  scenery  that  makes  war- 
riors and  bandits,  but  it  is  the  taming,  refining, 
elevating  influence  of  the  milder,  gentler,  environ- 
ments peculiar  to  our  land — environments  that 
will  in  the  coming  days  produce  a  literature  most 
admired  for  the  gentleness  of  its  sentiment  and  the 
grace  of  its  art.  With  us  the  perfection  of  the 
literary  art  will  attain  its  zenith  in  approximating 
the  perfection  of  the  sweet  nature  and  rich  land- 
scapes about  us. 

INFLUENCE     OF     SONG. 

Our  fathers  were  a  busy,  active  people,  but  they 
had  their  times  for  rest;   and  during  these  restful 


10  OREGON  LITERATURE. 

hours  they  found  much  solace  in  song.  The  violin 
was  their  only  piano.  They  listened  to  its  music 
and  they  danced  to  its  notes;  and  those,  who  did 
not  think  it  wicked,  sang  with  it.  They  did  not 
all  have  time  to  read  books,  and  many  of  them 
did  not  know  how;  but  they  could  all  sing,  and 
they  found  time  for  this  recreation;  and  they  sang 
more  in  their  homes  and  in  their  fields  than  they 
do  now.  If  at  no  other  time,  they  sang  on  their 
way  to  and  from  labor;  and  every  home  became  a 
sort  of  musical  conservatory.  They  had  traveled 
far,  and  reached  their  earthly  Canaan;  and  now 
they  were  singing  of  the  Canaan  beyond,  drink- 
ing in  the  poetry  that  flowed  like  the  milk  and 
honey  of  the  land  that  they  had  found. 

And  it  is  probable  that  the  men  and  the  women 
and  the  children  who  sing  the  good  songs  thrill- 
ing the  world  with  their  melodies  exert  as  great 
an  influence  in  touching  the  popular  heart  and  in 
inspiring  the  nobler  sentiments  of  humanity  as  do 
the  men  and  the  women  who  write  the  good  songs; 
and  the  men  and  women  who  write  the  good  songs 
do  as  much  to  develop  the  nation  as  they  who 
write  the  good  laws.  The  singers,  therefore,  some 
way  or  other  are  just  back  of  the  good  laws  of  the 
country.  In  the  days  when  there  were  no  news- 
papers, nor  magazines,  and  books  were  few,  the 
Davids,  the  Homers,  and  the  Alfreds,  went  about 
singing  patriotic  songs  to  the  people;  and  thus, 
through  the  art  of  song,  patriotism  became  a  part 


OREGON  LITER  A  TURE. 


of  national  life.  Away  down  the  ages  their  chil- 
dren's children  came  to  the  shores  of  Oregon  with 
a  new  song  upon  their  lips;  and  young  men  from 
every  community — representing  many  of  the  best 
families  of  our  state — have  responded  to  the  na- 
tion's call,  and  they  have  sung  the  new  song  and 
carried  a  message  of  liberty  to  the  down-trodden 
nations  in  the  far-away  isles  of  the  unknown  seas. 
In  the  days  of  the  pioneer,  every  community  had 
its  singing  school.  They  selected  from  their  num- 
ber a  leader,  and  sang  from  some  of  those  old  col- 
lections of  musical  gems,  such  as  the  "Carrnina 
Sacra,"  the  "New  Lute  of  Zion,"  the  "Harmony," 
the  "Triumph,"  the  "Key  Note,"  "Golden  Wreath," 
the  "Revivalist,"  and  others.  Some  of  the  best 
books  were  written  in  the  old  square-note  system 
so  the  people  could  slowly  speH  their  way  through 
the  music.  Have  you  heard  those  songs — "The 
Land  of  Canaan,"  "I  Belong  to  the  Band,  Halle- 
lujah," "Mary  to  the  Savior's  Tomb,"  "Jesus  Lover 
of  My  Soul,"  "The  World  Will  Be  on  Fire,"  "I 
Want  to  Be  an  Angel,"  "There  Is  a  Happy  Land," 
"Work  for  the  Night  is  Coming,"  and  scores 
of  others,  among  which  were  the  national  odes? 
Such  gatherings — such  music!  The  singers  always 
looked  forward  to  the  day  when  they  could  join  in 
song.  Sometimes  the  leader  stumbled  a  little, 
for  the  singing* was  more  spirited  than  classical; 
but  the  songs  were  few,  and  they  learned  them 
well  and  they  have  been  singing  them  ever  since. 


12  OREGON  LITERATURE. 


Some  of  that  band  have  gone  to  join  the  choir  im- 
mortal where  they  will  chant  blessed  songs  forever- 
more  amidst  an  array  of  angelic  hosts.  Others 
whose  lives  were  influenced  by  those  songs  have 
been  spared  a  little  longer;  yet  the  meeting  will 
be  bye  and  bye,  and  they'd  like  to  think  that  they 
could  take  those  dear  old  songs  along  with  them. 
They  love  to  hear  them  during  hours  of  joy,  dur- 
ing prosperity,  and  during  hours  of  sickness;  and, 
what  is  more  comforting  and  consoling  in  that 
darkest  of  hours  than  one  of  those  dear  old  songs? 
A  little  midget  in  a  home  was  piping  one  of  those 
songs;  and  I  could  not  help  but  think  that  a  half 
century  had  rolled  by  since  a  master  trained  the 
tuneless  voices  heard  then  among  men;  and  I 
wished  he  were  still  here  that  he  might  listen  to 
the  little  one  sing.  Then  he  could  see  that  he  had 
taught  better  than  he  knew,  for  he  taught  an  un- 
born generation  to  sing;  and  thus  he  tuned  their 
hearts  to  sweeter,  softer,  gentler  strains.  Those 
songs  have  softened  the  soul  and  sweetened  the 
literature  of  Oregon,  for  they  have  become  a  part  of 
of  Oregon  life. 

THE     BEAUTIFUL     WILLAMETTE. 

I  sometimes  think  the  muse  that  first  sung  the 
"Beautiful  Willamette,"  that  poem  which  was  set 
to  the  gliding  movement,  waltz-like  measure,  and 
rippling  music  of  our  poetic  river  was  inspired  by 
the  spirit  of  those  beautiful  songs — the  songs  of 


OREGON  LITERATURE.  13 

long  ago — the  songs  whose  voices  have  long  been 
stilled. 

Every  great  poem  has  an  experience  back  of  it; 
this  will  explain  why  many  of  the  immortal  songs 
are  the  out-growth  of  war.  While  the  author  of 
the  "Beautiful  Willamette"  may  have  never  been 
able  to  recall  the  particular  event  that  brought  out 
all  his  poetic  energies  in  this  special  instance,  yet 
there  was  an  event  and  that  event  was  followed  by 
an  experience;  and  the  poem  relates  it  in  the  notes 
of  its  song.  Just  what  it  was  I  know  not,  but 
some  day  there  will  appear  upon  the  stage  of  lit- 
erary achievement  a  penetrating,  discriminating, 
discerning  intellect  that  will  fathom  the  full  mean- 
ing of  the  poem,  and  read  the  secret  to  the  world. 
However,  one  who  poses  not  as  a  philosopher  or 
sage,  but  who  has  studied  the  poem  carefully, 
could  imagine  that  the  author  might  have  caught 
sight  of  the  great,  winding  sheet  of  water  and, 
overcome  with  its  smoothness  and  beauty  at 
once  contrasted  the  placid  river  with  his  turbulent 
life.  At  this  moment  came  the  spirit  of  the  old 
songs  floating  along  in  rhythmic  measures  upon 
the  music  of  the  waters  and  the  poet  sat  down 
and  wrote  these  immortal  lines: 

"Onward  ever, 
Lovely   river, 

Softly  calling  to  the  sea; 
Time,  that  scars  us, 


14  OREGON  LITERATURE. 

Maims  and  mars  us, 
Leaves  no  track  or  trench  on  thee." 

No  wonder  that  Samuel  L.   Simpson,  the  Edgar 
Poe  of  Oregon,  sane  to  the  world 

THE  BEAUTIFUL  WILLAMETTE. 

From  the  Cascades'   frozen  gorges, 

Leaping  like  a  child  at  play, 
Winding,  widening  through   the  valley 
Bright  Willamette  glides  away; 
Onward  ever, 
Lovely  river, 

Softly  calling  to  the  sea; 
Time,  that  scars  us, 
Maims  and  mars  us, 
Leaves  no  track  or  trench  on  thee. 

Spring's   green   witchery   is    weaving 

Braid  and  border  for  thy  side; 
Grace  forever  haunts   thy  journey, 

Beauty  dimplesi  on   thy  tide; 
Through  the  purple  gates   of   morning, 

Now  thy  roseate  ripples  dance, 
Golden  then,  when  day,  departing, 

On  thy  waters  trails  his  lance. 
(Notice  the  music  of  the  old  song.) 
Wajtzing,    flashing, 
Tinkling,    splashing, 
Limpid,  volatile,  and  free— 


SAM  L.  SIMPSON. 


OREGON  LITERATURE.      *  15 

Always   hurried 
To  be  buried 
In  the  bitter,  moon-mad  sea. 

In  thy  crystal  deeps  inverted 
Swings ~a  picture  of  the  sky. 
Like  those  wavering  hopes  of  "Aidenn, 

Dimly  in  our  dreams  that  lie; 
Clouded  often,  drowned  in  turmoil, 

Faint  and  lovely,  far  away — 
Wreathing-  sunshine  on  the  morrow, 
Breathing  fragrance  round  "to-day. 
Love  would  wander 
Here  and  ponder, 

Hither  poetry  would  dream; 
Life's  old   questions, 
Sad  suggestions, 
"Whence  and  whither?"  throng  thy  streams. 

On  the  roaring  waste  of  ocean 

Soon  thy  scattered  waves   shall  toss, 
'Mid   the  surges'  rhythmic  thunder 
Shall  thy  silver  tongues;  be  lost. 
Oh!  thy  glimmering  rush  of  gladness 

Mo'cks  this   turbid  life  of  mine, 
Racing  to  the  wild  Forever 
Down  the  sloping  paths  of  Time. 
Onward  ever, 
Lovely  river, 
Softly  calling  to  the  sea; 


16  OREGON  LITERATURE. 

Time,  that  scars  us, 
Maims  and  mars  us, 
Leaves  no  track  or  trench  on  thee. 

If  for  no  other  reason  than  that  it  breathes  the 
spirit  of  its  noble  ancestry — the  songs  of  long  ago 
— the  "Beautiful  Willamette"  is  destined  to  be  one 
of  the  surviving  gems  of  American  literature. 
Every  state  must  sing  a  song;  and,  in  the  ab- 
sence of  a  state  song  that  will  rank  as  a  classic, 
Oregonians  may  be  content  to  sing  of  their  most 
beautiful  river.  The  "Beautiful  Willamette"  will  be 
memorized  by  children,  by  toilers,  and  sweet  sing- 
ers; and,  although  it  may  be  a  hundred  years  be- 
fore it  will  fully  catch  the  national  ear,  it  will 
rank  with  some  of  the  sweetest  lines  yet  written  by 
any  American. 

THE     CAMPMEETING. 

When  Bryant  wrote  "The  groves  were  God's  first 
temples,"  he  must  have  been  thinking  of  the  old 
camp-meeting  grounds — those  theological  institu- 
tions located  throughout  the  West  where  men 
heard  some  of  the  sweetest  eloquence  that  has  never 
been  recorded  in  book  or  magazine.  At  a  time, 
when  the  camp-meeting  would  not  conflict  with 
sowing  and  reaping,  people  met  and  mingled  and 
their  hearts  were  mellowed  with  the  word  of  God 
as  they  heard  it  preached  from  revelation  and 
read  it  in  the  volume  of  nature  spread  out  before 


OREGON  LITERATURE.  17 


them.  The  preachers  who  interpreted  these  les- 
sons were  Fowler,  Hines,  Hill,  Kennoyer,  Conner, 
Driver,  Elledge,  and  others  precious  to  the  mem- 
ories of  many  who  under  their  instructions  have 
rejoiced  to  see  within  our  own  valley  the  dewy 
rose  of  Sharon  bud  midst  showers  of  blessings, 
and  blossom  'neath  the  sunshine  of  Heaven. 

When  a  man  fails  to  solve  a  difficult  problem 
with  his  head  he  instinctively  undertakes  to  solve 
it  with  his  heart.  Accordingly  this  was  a  season 
of  heart  culture  especially  needed  by  those  who 
had  wrestled  with  the  difficulties  incident  to  pio- 
neer life — such  difficulties  as  no  one  but  the  im- 
migrant, the  pioneer,  or  the  soldier,  can  fully 
understand.  It  was  the  great  social  and  religious 
meeting  place  of  the  people,  and  it  grew  to  be  a 
part  of  pioneer  life.  But,  in  the  course  ol  time, 
when  the  pioneers  began  to  pass  away,  the  camp- 
meeting  gradually  came  to  be  a  place  hallowed  only 
in  memory  and  in  religious  literature. 

The  ancients  who  learned  to  worship  the  trees 
told  us  that  eloquence  belongs  only  to  the  gods  and 
the  groves.  With  such  magnificent  groves  along 
our  templed  hills,  we  might  have  easily  become 
druids  or  tree  worshippers  like  them;  but  instead, 
we  have  cultivated  the  thought  and  developed  the 
themes  that  will  yet  flower  out  into  a  literature  not 
unlike  that  of  the  old  time  camp-meeting  disser- 
tation. 


18  OREGON  LITER  A  TURE. 


PULPITEERS. 

Much  wisdom  and  eloquence  was  voiced  and 
penned  by  the  pioneer  pulpiteers  among  whom 
were:  Dr.  Marcus  Whitman,  Father  Eels,  Wilson 
Blain,  James  H.  Wilbur,  Jason  Lee,  S.  G.  Irvine, 
Josiah  L.  Parrish,  A.  L.  Lindsey,  William  Rob- 
erts, Father  Blanchet,  Thomas  H.  Pearne,  Alvin 
F.  Waller,  Thomas  Kendall,  James  Worth,  George 
H.  Atkinson,  Gustavus  Hines,  Harvey  K.  Hines, 
Edward  R.  Geary,  B.  Wistar  Morris,  Thomas  Con- 
don, Dr.  Elliot,  and  others;  besides  the  visiting 
bishops — Simpson,  Glosbrenner,  Scott,  Morris, 
Marvin,  Weaver,  Castle,  Bowman,  Foster — and 
other  great  lights  who  always  brought  new  tidings 
and  gave  fresh  inspiration  to  pulpit  oratory — in 
the  science  of  sciences,  the  ology  of  ologies — the- 
ology. These  influences  have  quickened  the  pul- 
pit and  given  fresh  inspiration  to  every  form  of 
literary  effort,  from  the  humblest  essay  in  the  pub- 
lic school  to  the  crowning  efforts  in  parliamentary 
forensic  and  sacred  oratory. 

Then  there  was  another  class  of  ministers  who 
wielded  an  influence  on  religious  thought  in  the 
earlier  days,  one  of  whom  it  may  not  be  out  of 
place  to  mention  at  this  time. 

THE       OLD-FASHIONED      PREACHER. 

Someone,  somewhere,  some  day,  I  know  not 
when,  guided  by  a  certain  instinct  which  deter- 
mines worth  and  discriminates  between  men,  will 


OREGON  LITER  A  TURE. 


look  above  and  beyond  schools  and  art  and  rich 
attire  to  find  one  of  Nature's  noblemen;  and  then 
will  sit  down  and  write  the  life  of  Joab  Powell, 
whose  utterances  were  like  those  of  Henry  Clay's 
— spoken  for  the  occasion  and  not  for  the  future. 
There  are  those  who  on  account  of  their  individ- 
uality rise  so  far  above  conventionalism  that  we 
forget  their  titles  and  think  of  them  solely  as  men. 
We  say  Socrates,  Virgil,  Ossian,  Milton,  Demos- 
thenes; for  no  title  can  add  lustre  to  their  names. 
How  refreshing  would  sound  Rev.  Peter,  Dr. 
James,  or  Elder  John,  of  sacred  lore.  So  in  our 
land  there  have  been  those  in  whom  we  at  once 
recognize  and  revere  the  man:  as  Roger  Williams, 
Lorenzo  Dow  and  Peter  Cartwright;  and,  in  the 
farther  West,  Jason  Lee,  Father  Newton  and  Joab 
Powell.  These  untitled  messengers  carried  the 
gospel  of  higher  civilization  when  the  track  of 
the  wagon  and  the  iron  horse  was  but  the  dim 
trail  of  the  Indian  and  the  pioneer;  and  it  be- 
hooves the  rising  generation  to  repeat  and  record 
their  words  of  wisdom  ere  all  they  have  said  will 
be  effaced  except  some  trite  tale  unworthy  of  a 
listening  ear. 

THE     6IBLE. 

In  each  wagon  of  the  long  immigrant  trains  that 
came  into  our  valley  might  have  been  found  a 
certain  book — plain  book — precious  book — book  of 
books — the  Bible;  and  the  most  indifferent  some- 


20  OREGON  LITERATURE. 


times  perused  its  pages.  In  England,  John  Bun- 
yan  read  the  Bible  until  his  language  grew  to  be 
the  language  of  the  Bible,  as  may  be  seen  in  the 
"Pilgrim's  Progress,"  an  allegory  in  which  human 
thought  arose  on  angelic  wings  and  took  on  the 
robes  of  Holy  Writ.  In  Oregon  a  large  majority 
of  the  people  have  been  Bible-readers;  and  the 
ratio  has  been  steadily  increasing;  hence  the  Bible 
element  or  Saxon  element  bids  fair  to  grow  in 
prominence  in  the  language  of  our  people.  Fur- 
thermore, the  experience  and  the  culture  of  our 
people  tend  to  mellow  the  feelings  and  warm  the 
hearts  of  the  masses  and  bring  about  a  constantly 
growing  demand  for  the  language  of  the  heart,  the 
language  of  sentiment  and  sense,  the  language  of 
those  who  use  the  best  vehicle  of  expression  in 
talking  direct  from  the  heart  to  a  point. 

CLIMATIC     INFLUENCE. 

It  is  an  indisputable  fact  that  climate  has  always 
exerted  an  influence  upon  a  truly  great  literature, 
and  there  are  those  who  believe  they  have  already 
noticed  marked  indications  of  climatic  influence 
upon  what  has  been  written  in  our  state;  and  they 
pretend  to  believe  that  this  influence  will  continue 
in  its  development  so  that  it  will  be  more  notice- 
able and  more  influential  as  the  years  go  by. 

It  is  known  that  in  an  extreme  temperature  the 
best  intellectual  results  are  seldom  attained.  Hu- 
man energies  are  exhausted  in  the  effort  to  sus- 


FIRST  PRINTING  PRESS  ON  THE  PACIFIC  COAST. 

(On  this  press  was  printed  the  Oregon  City  "Spectator,"  February  5,  1846— 

the  first  newspaper  west  of  the  Missouri  River  ) 


OREGON  LITER  A  TURE.  21 


tain  life;  hence  we  do  not  expect  great  books  and 
intellectual  triumphs  to  come  from  those  who  re- 
ceived their  growth  in  the  torrid  or  in  the  frigid 
zones.  It  has  also  been  observed  that  those  cli- 
mates, in  which  it  is  too  easy  to  obtain  a  liveli- 
hood, impede  intellectual  progress.  It  has,  therefore, 
been  believed  that  no  stirring  thought  will  come 
from  the  nations  of  equatorial  Africa  nor  from  our 
cherished  Philippines.  In  these  lands,  those  who 
have  palaces  leave  them  to  live  in  groves,  gon- 
dolas, chariots,  theaters,  fashionable  clubs,  popular 
resorts,  the  racing  circle,  and  the  bull-fight  ring; 
everything  succumbs  to  pleasure,  until  pleasure  be- 
comes licentious  in  its  influence — an  influence 
which  is  never  truly  literary.  Accordingly,  we 
look  to  the  more  temperate  climes  for  literary 
achievement  at  its  zenith  and  human  endeavor  in 
its  glory;  and  men  of  attainment  have  come  to 
believe  that  Oregon,  which  is  centrally  located  as 
to  mildness  of  temperature  will  produce  a  superior 
literature;  and  that  it  has  two  distinct  climates, 
each  of  which  is  favorable  to  the  growth  and  de- 
velopment of  a  particular  literature,  peculiarly  pure, 
perspicuous  and  powerful. 

Of  the  Saxon  motherland  the  scholarly  Taine 
said,  "Thick  clouds  hover  above,  being  fed  by 
thick  exhalations.  They  lazily  turn  their  flanks, 
grow  dark,  and  descend  in  showers;  oh,  how 
easily."  Is  not  that  Western  Oregon?  The  Sax- 
ons of  Europe  have  left  their  climate  to  find  a  sim- 


22  OREGON  LI TERA  T URE. 

ilar  climate  here.  The  western  Oregonian  should, 
therefore,  be  the  true  type,  the  typical  Saxon  of 
the  century  that  is  about  to  dawn.  This  is  not 
boasting,  but  prophecy.  Indeed,  this  is  a  foggy 
land  with  its  seasons  of  sombre  scenery,  where 
moss  is  not  uncommon,  and  the  gray  mists  creep 
under  a  stratum  of  motionless  vapor.  While  East- 
ern Oregon  is  a  land  of  sunshine  and  lofty  skies, 
where  silently  float  great  gleaming  bars  of  steel, 
and  silver,  and  gold,  until,  perchance,  they  are 
disturbed  by  the  bolts  of  Jove  that  come  booming 
o'er  the  mountain  into  the  valley  below.  All  na- 
ture is  suddenly  quickened;  and  the  people  have, 
instead  of  the  gentle  shower  that  floats  in  on  the 
heavy  atmosphere  of  the  sea  coast,  the  drenching 
rain  of  the  highland  clouds  that  were  torn  loose 
by  the  thunderbolt  and  their  waters  spilled 
upon  parching  grain  and  thirsting  herds.  In  the 
one  the  air  is  purified  by  the  gentle,  falling  rain- 
drops; in  the  other  by  the  swift,  sweeping  showers 
from  the  thundercloud.  Observe  the  effect  of  this 
upon  the  life  of  those  dwelling  in  these  different 
sections.  Notice  the  difference  between  the  meas- 
ured tread  of  the  one  and  the  quick  step  of  the 
other,  as  well  as  the  habits  of  thought  of  the  two 
peoples. 

Then  there  will  always  be  as  marked  difference 
between  the  literature  of  Eastern  Oregon  and  the 
literature  of  Western  Oregon  as  if  they  were  two 
different  states  on  two  different  coasts.  Think  of 


OREG  ON  LITER  A  T  URE.  23 

our  humid  atmosphere  washed  and  kept  pure  by 
the  Webfoot  rain — did  rain,  does  rain,  will  rain; 
gentle  rain;  rain  that  comes  like  a  huge  joke,  ever 
welcome,  ever-abundant,  and  never-failing  rain; 
rain  that  shortens  the  days,  lengthens  the  nights, 
and  houses  the  people,  domesticating  men  who 
ordinarily  grow  wild  and  rough  in  the  free  light, 
exhilarating  sunshine  of  the  higher  altitudes.  A 
heavy,  languid,  drowsy  atmosphere;  hence  slow 
thinkers;  slower  to  plan,  slow  to  decide,  slow 
to  act, — a  people  not  unlike  the  Saxons  of  old,  their 
senses  will  become  blunted,  the  muscles  braced, 
and  the  will  vigorous.  There  will  be  a  certain 
earnestness  leading  from  frivolous  sentiments  to 
noble  ones — severe  manners,  grave  inclinations, 
and  manly  dignity.  The  western  Oregonian  will 
be  domesticated  per  force  of  circumstances.  An 
indoor  plant,  a  reader  of  books,  a  student  of  indoor 
ethics.  The  eastern  Oregonian  will  be  an  outdoor 
plant;  sallying  out  from  beneath  his  roof  to  bathe 
himself  in  the  summer  sunshine  and  inure  himself 
to  the  severe  atmosphere  and  draw  his  inspirations 
from  the  bold  landscapes,  solid  clouds  that  stretch 
away  like  great  gleaming  bars  of  bronze  and  gold. 
A  bold  man,  a  brave  man,  a  courageous  man,  a 
cultured  man,  nature's  man. 

Inasmuch  as  the  climate  of  Western  Oregon  is 
somewhat  tempered  with  the  Japanese  current,  the 
people  who  would  be  cut  down  untimely  in  a  rug- 
ged climate  like  that  of  Eastern  Oregon  naturally 


24  OREGON  LITERATURE. 


seek  to  prolong  life  by  taking  advantage  of  the 
milder  climate  of  Western  Oregon.  There  will 
always  be  more  or  less  of  those  who  find  the  win- 
ters too  severe  in  Eastern  Oregon  and  they  will, 
therefore,  spend  the  winter  in  Western  Oregon. 
Besides  there  will  be  a  tendency  to  seek  this  resort 
for  those  who  are  troubled  with  pulmonary  troub- 
les. Moreover  in  all  this  healthy  valley  will  be 
found  a  great  number  of  imported  pulmonary  cases 
— cases  that  would  be  fatal  without  notice  in  East- 
ern Oregon.  Hence  chronic  ailments  will  com- 
monly be  found  in  this  great  hospital  for  the 
afflicted.  Look  not,  therefore,  for  those  rugged 
sayings  in  the  literature  of  Western  Oregon  that 
you  might  expect  to  find  in  the  literature  of  East- 
ern Oregon. 

In  Western  Oregon  there  is  much  acid,  little 
lime;  much  fruit,  yet  little  to  neutralize  it;  the  teeth 
decay  early,  and  there  is  but  little  bone  material. 
In  Eastern  Oregon  there  is  less  fruit  and  more 
lime  or  bone-making  material;  hence,  the  genera- 
tions growing  there  will  develop  larger  bones  and 
frames.  They  will  be  bigger,  consequently  more 
rugged.  The  people  of  Western  Oregon  will  be 
constructed  on  a  frame-work  of  smaller  bones; 
they  will,  therefore,  possess  a  more  delicate  nature 
— fine  physique  true  enough,  but  they  will  not  be 
so  strong  and  sturdy,  hence  more  sensitive  to 
warmth  and  cold  and,  on  this  account,  more  sen- 
sitive to  feeling  and  sentiment.  There  promises  to 


OREGON  LITER  A  TURE.  25 


be  a  whole-souled  air  in  the  literature  of  Eastern 
Oregon  somewhat  after  the  Dryden  type,  while 
finish  and  fine  feeling  of  the  Pope  style  will  char- 
acterize the  literature  of  Western  Oregon. 

COLLEGE     INFLUENCE. 

The  college  influence  must  not  be  overlooked  in 
the  study  of  literature.  We  are  told  that  our  na- 
tional literature  thrived  only  as  the  colleges  of  the 
nation  prospered.  The  great  literature  of  our  coun- 
try is  but  the  confluence  of  streams  flowing  out  of 
the  fountain  heads,  Harvard,  Yale,  William  and 
Mary,  and  other  great  colleges  of  the  nation.  So 
in  our  state  there  was  the  Oregon  academy  which 
gradually  developed  into  the  University  of  Oregon 
at  Eugene,  whence  came  the  noted  Joaquin  Miller. 
He  may  have  written  in  the  Sierras  and  sung  of 
their  grandeur;  he  may  have  bowed  to  the  muses 
in  the  East;  his  soul  may  have  been  mellowed  with 
the  sentiments  of  the  vine-clad  Italy,  yet  he  is  an 
Oregon  poet, — simply  a  child  away  from  home. 

Pacific  University,  like  Jupiter  who  conceived 
Minerva  full  grown  and  complete,  sent  out  as  her 
first  graduate  Harvey  W.  Scott,  who  is  recognized 
throughout  the  nation  as  a  distinguished  journalist 
and  critic. 

History  tells  us  that  Washington  Irving  was  the 
first  embassador  from  the  new  world  to  the  old — 
the  first  American  writer  to  obtain  recognition  on 
the  continent.  So  Bethel  college,  now  known  only 


26  OREGON  LITERATURE. 

in  history,  was  the  first  institution  in  our  state  to 
receive  recognition  from  a  great  university  in  the 
mother  country.  Dr.  L.  L.  Rowland,  Fellow  of 
the  Royal  Society  of  England,  is  a  graduate  of 
Bethel  college. 

St.  Mary's  academy  graduated  Mrs.  Irene  Col- 
braith,  of  McMinnville,  whose  poetical  contribu- 
tions have  been  sought  by  many  of  the  best  mag- 
azines of  our  country. 

Philomath  college,  in  1869,  sent  out  Rev.  Louis 
A.  Banks,  who  has  written  a  score  of  volumes,  oc- 
cupied some  of  the  wealthiest  pulpits  in  the  Meth- 
odist Episcopal  church,  and  who  writes  books  that 
are  sought  after  by  certain  classes  next  to  the  writ- 
ing of  Talmage  and  Moody. 

Willamette  University  gave  to  the  literary  world 
the  late  Samuel  L.  Simpson,  already  mentioned  as 
the  author  of  ''The  Beautiful  Willamette;''  and  all 
of  our  other  colleges  have  contributed  their  share 
to  the  literature  of  our  state. 

THE   CHAUTAUQUA. 

Along  with  these  must  not  be  forgotten  the 
influence  of  the  largest  institution  that  has  been 
organized  within  our  borders — The  Willam- 
ette Chautauqua  Association  of  Gladstone  Park. 
This  college  of  liberal  arts  has  already  imported 
more  light  from  the  East,  brought  out  more  tal- 
ent in  the  West,  and  given  instruction  to  a  greater 
number  of  students  in  the  things  with  which  busy, 


OREG  ON  LI  TERA  TURE.  27 

active  men  have  to  think  and  to  do  than  has  any 
other  influence  in  our  state. 

INFLUENCE  OF  NEWSPAPERS  AND  MAGAZINES. 

The  pioneers  well  remember  the  time  when  the 
newspaper  came  in  the  semi-annual  mail  and  was 
ravenously  devoured.  They  wanted  to  know  about 
the  old  folks  at  home,  then  afterwards  came  the 
war  and  other  national  topics  of  importance.  Har- 
per's, Leslie's,  and  the  more  expensive  current  lit- 
erature, found  their  way  into  many  of  the  more 
prosperous  homes.  A  taste  for  literature  and  the 
news  was  being  awakened  so  that  in  a  short  time 
the  newspapers  began  to  multiply;  the  monthlies 
became  weeklies;  the  weeklies,  semi-weeklies;  the 
semi-weeklies  dailies;  and,  if  there  are  to  be  many 
victories  such  as  Dewey's,  the  people  will  rise  up 
en  masse  and  demand  an  hourly  bulletin.  The 
thirst  for  news  and  information  on  national  ques- 
tions will  ever  serve  as  a  tonic  to  create  a  desire 
for  abundant  reading,  hence  will  produce  a  better 
market  for  literature. 

It  is  true  we  have  not  published  many  maga- 
zines; but  it  is  not  for  want  of  talent,  or  scenery, 
or  demand;  we  have  simply  not  had  the  time  and 
we  could  get  it  done  cheaper  in  the  East  than  we 
could  hire  it  done  in  the  West.  But  every  one 
remembers  the  "West  Shore"  whose  pen  was  dipped 
in  poetry  and  whose  brush  was  colored  with  the 
tints  of  the  rainbow;  how  it  visited  our  homes  and 


28 OREGON  LITERATURE. 

how  eagerly  it  was  sought  by  thousands  of  readers 
throughout  the  nation.  Among  the  greater  jour- 
nalists whom  many  of  us  have  read  since  we  were 
children  are  H.  W.  Scott,  the  critic  and  editor  of 
the  Oregonian;  L.  Samuels,  of  the  West  Shore; 
Mrs.  A.  S.  Duniway,  champion  of  women's  rights; 
the  trenchant  Thomas  B.  Merry;  and  then  there 
were  James  O'Meara,  A.  Bush,  W.  L.  Adams,  S. 
Pennoyer,  S.  A.  Clarke,  W.  H.  Odell,  D.  W.  Craig, 
A.  Noltner,  and  others,  whose  number  has  in- 
creased with  the  tide  of  immigration  and  the  pro- 
gress of  our  country. 

PROGRESS   AND    LITERATURE. 

But  unrest  develops  character;  quiet,  talent; 
and  talent,  literature.  As  grand  as  was  the 
time,  and  hence  the  deeds,  and  memorable  the 
lives,  the  pioneer  days  are  over.  Our  homes 
have  been  built,  farms  have  been  made,  the 
Indian  has  been  tamed,  churches  have  been 
erected,  schools  are  culturing  the  young;  we 
have  passed  through  the  home-building  period 
and  entered  into  the  home  and  social  development 
era,  an  era  when  men— thinking  men — will  have 
an  opportunity  to  sit  down  in  the  quiet  of  their 
homes  and  reflect.  There  is  already  hardly  a  town 
or  a  hamlet  in  our  state  that  is  not  the  seat  of  a 
publishing  establishment,  preaching  the  gospel  of 
modern  culture  and  literary  progress.  And  in  this 
connection  may  be  mentioned  the  Sabbath  school 


I 


10" 

t» 

f-< 

,0 

t-l 

a 

c 
o 

0) 

c 

the  "Columbian 

United  States  * 

0) 

^ 

PH 

S 

o 

(H 

«N 

1 

, 

>> 

1—1 

«o 

o 

•? 

CPJ 

Z 

Q 

® 

00 

's 

^ 

<u 

0 

C 

o 

of 

- 

1—1 

*• 

o 

LJ 

S 
0 

1 

1 

i 

1 

S 

« 

DC 

O 

O 

"S 

1 

cS 

Bj 

O) 

ET 

c 

"O 

o 

3 

'5 

CO 

o 

u. 

0 

X 

.1 

C 

of 

X 

O 

03 
oo 

E 

I 

o 
or, 

2 

'& 

>. 

H 

0 

" 

S 

C 

f 

1 

CO 

1 

d 

•^3 

g 

-f 

~T 

.S 

CO 

Of 

? 

~ 

•jf 

a 

Q 

» 

i 

"s 

Z 

? 

1 

r" 

J- 

BE 

8 

QC 

o> 

p 

£ 

r 

O) 

D 
0 

c     . 

si 

0 

1 
go 

•  on  the 

ibia  Riv 

0> 

QC 

•^    '& 

o 

5 

3) 

^ 

Z 

LJ 

o>  .... 

0 

** 

.~ 

o 

"c 

LJ 

£  o 

•o 

O 

E. 

3 

0 

Z 

«p  J 

5 

K 

f4 

_; 

J 

•e 

0 
Q. 

00      Q 

S 

00 

n  stree 

c 

1 

e 

rth  of  t 

1 

75  '"t? 

. 

- 

^-T 

^ 

0 

30 

~ 

5  2 

D 

•rf 

00 

CJ 

c 

1-1 

c 

1  1 

b 

C 

1 

.=' 

i~ 

S 

3 

- 

1 

EH' 

x" 

CO 

C 
S 

S 

>  S 

^ 

Cj 

^_ 

^r 

93 

5 

> 

^*     Pi 

S 

e 

= 

o 

0 

_^ 

X 

- 

E 

e3      o  ^      *    J: 


£    S 


OREGON  LITERATURE.  31 

Holy  Land."  Jonathan  Edwards'  "Inquiry  Into  the 
Freedom  of  the  Will,"  written  in  1754,  was  re- 
garded as  authority  in  metaphysics,  but  it  never 
was  classed  as  literature.  Then  it  may  be  re- 
marked that  they  produced  no  songs  or  other 
music  of  note,  while  our  Francis,  our  DeMoss  fam- 
ily, our  Heritage,  our  Parvin,  our  Yoder,  and 
scores  of  others  have  published  songs,  enjoyed  and 
sung  from  shore  to  shore,  from  sea  to  sea.  They 
had  no  great  lawyers  to  strengthen  their  constitu- 
tion by  the  wise  interpretation  of  their  laws,  such 
as  we  have  had  in  Matthew  P.  Deady,  W.  Lair 
Hill,  Lafayette  Lane,  W.  P.  Lord,  and  others 
who  have  graced  the  supreme  bench  of  Oregon. 
Modern  journalism  was  then  unknown;  and  a 
Homer  Davenport,  with  an  annual  income  of  $13,- 
ooo — the  highest  salary  ever  paid  a  cartoonist — 
was  not  to  be  found  among  men. 

SOME  OREGON  BOOKS  AND  AUTHORS. 

To  summarize  we  have  among  the  Oregon  books 
and  authors: 

POETRY.— Joaquin  Miller,  Minnie  Myrtle  Mil- 
ler, James  G:  Clark,  Ella  Higginson,  Col.  Baker, 
Mrs.  S.  Hamilton,  Samuel  L.  Simpson,  H.  H. 
Woodward,  Lilian  Blanche  Fearing. 

SHORT  POEMS  OF  MERIT.— T.  W.  Daven- 
port, John  Minto. 

HISTORY.— W.  H.  Gray,  H.  K.  Hines,  Frances 


32  OREGON  LITERATURE. 

F.  Victor,  H.  O.  Lang,  F.  Rigler  and  J.  Q.  Thorn- 

DESCRIPTION.— Wallis  Nash. 

ORATORY.— George  H.  Williams,  Col.  E.  D. 
Baker,  Delazon  Smith,  United  States  Senator  J.  W. 
Nesmith. 

LAW.— W.  Lair  Hill,  L.  F.  Lane,  W.  P.  Lord, 
Matthew  P.  Deady. 

JOURNALISM.— Harvey  W.  Scott,  P.  S. 
Knight,  Harvey  Goddon,  L.  Samuel,  Mrs.  A.  S. 
Duniway,  Thos.  B.  Merry,  James  O'Meara,  A. 
Bush,  W.  L.  Adams,  S.  Pennoyer,  D.  W.  Craig, 
S.  A.  Clarke,  Mrs.  C.  A.  Coburn,  W.  H.  Odell. 

THEOLOGY.— Dr.  T.  L.  Elliott,  Lewis  A. 
Banks. 

MATHEMATICS.— Prof.   Lilley. 
ORTHOGRAPHY.— Dr.  Patterson. 

MUSIC.— Prof.  A.  L.  Francis,  Prof.  Yoder,  De- 
Moss  family,  Prof.  R.  A.  Heritage,  Prof.  Z.  M. 
Parvin. 

ARTIST.— Homer   Davenport. 
LECTURES.— Dr.    Thomas    Condon. 

PAMPHLETS  AND  BULLETINS.— Histori- 
cal, Agricultural,  Mining,  etc.,  etc. 

Let  us  notice  a  few  of  these  authors  that  have 
been  mentioned  so  prominently. 


LOUIS  A.  BANKS. 


OREG  ON  LITER  A  T  VRE.  33 


LOUIS   ALBERT  BANKS. 


What  good  can  come  out  of  Nazareth?  has  been 
answered  again.  From  infancy  to  childhood,  and 
from  childhood  to  the  boy  preacher  of  16,  we  find 
him  in  Oregon.  Charles  Parkhurst,  the  great 
divine  and  reformer,  says  of  him:  "Louis  Albert 
Banks,  after  leaving  Philomath  college,  com- 
menced to  preach  the  gospel  in  Washington  terri- 
tory, and  many  were  converted.  From  17  to  21, 
he  taught  school  and  studied  law,  being  admitted 
to  practice  in  the  courts.  He  received  his  first 
regular  appointment  from  Bishop  Gilbert  Haven, 
and  was  stationed  in  Portland,  Oregon.  Fearless 
as  a  reformer,  in  his  pulpit,  he  has  been  shot  down 
by  the  infuriated  saloonist,  and  mobbed  by  the 
anti-Chinese  rioters."  He  has  occupied  some  of 
the  wealthiest  pulpits  of  the  Methodist  Episcopal 
church  in  the  United  States  where  he  has  met  with 
remarkable  success  as  a  minister  and  as  an  author. 

His  principal  books  are  Censor  Echoes,  the 
People's  Christ,  the  Revival  Giver,  White  Slaves, 
Common  Folks'  Religion,  Honeycombs  of  Life, 
the  Heavenly  Tradewinds,  the  Christ  Dream, 
Christ  and  His  Friends,  the  Saloon  Keeper's 
Ledger,  Seven  Times  Around  Jericho,  the  Hero 
Tales  from  Sacred  History,  an  Oregon  Boyhood, 
Sermon  Stories  for  Boys  and  Girls,  the  Christ 
Brotherhood,  Immortal  Hymns  and  Their  Story, 


34  OREGON  LITER  A  TURE. 

and  he  is  under  contract  to  write  three  other  vol- 
umes at  the  present  time. 

Dr.  Banks'  popularity  as  an  author  is  such  that 
the  great  Reformer  in  writing  an  introduction  to 
one  of  these  books  said,  "To  be  invited  to  a  place 
beside  the  author  of  the  volume,  and  to  present 
him  to  the  reading  public,  is  a  delightful  privilege." 

Mr.  Banks'  books  and  sermons  may  fitly  be 
termed  "the  Wild  Flowers  of  Oregon,"  for  he  has 
culled  the  lambs'  tongue,  the  rhododendron,  the 
wild  lilac,  the  field  lily,  the  honeysuckle,  and  the  wild 
grape,  and  taken  this  handful  of  wild  flowers  from 
the  hills  and  valleys  of  Oregon  and  woven  them 
into  beautiful  sermons  and  books — thus  furnishing 
a  delightful  source  of  help  to  thousands  of  men  and 
women  on  both  continents.  Indeed,  his  style  may 
be  defined  as  the  wild  flowers  of  Oregon  so  deli- 
cately transplanted  from  the  mild  atmosphere  of 
the  West  into  the  conservatories  of  the  rigid  East 
that  they  have  lost  none  of  their  original  fragrance 
or  beauty.  Thus,  through  Dr.  Banks  our  scenery 
has  flowered  out  upon  an  eastern  landscape  and  de- 
veloped into  a  beautiful  style  which  he  may  proud- 
ly call  his  own;  and  while  the  scholars  of  the  East 
may  notice  the  exotic  elements  in  it  they  cannot 
resist  the  pleasure  it  gives  them;  therefore,  they 
will  encourage  Dr.  Banks  in  preserving  his  literary 
identity  in  the  fast  flowing  stream  of  books  he  is 
pouring  out  upon  the  reading  public. 


OREGON  LITERATURE.  35 


JOAOUIN  MILLER. 


The  story  of  literary  greatness  is  sometimes  a 
strange,  but  thrilling  one.  Genius  has  always  its 
charms.  Its  language  has  never  yet  been  fully 
written,  its  eloquence  never  been  fully  spoken. 
Schliepmann,  uncovering  the  marble  upon  which 
Phidias  and  his  followers  carved  out  immortality 
for  themselves,  has  wrought  more  effectually  and 
more  wonderfully  than  have  some  of  the  humbler 
men  of  genius  in  these  modern  days.  Upon  his 
canvas  of  stone,  the  unknown  artist  portrays  for 
us  Herod's  temple  with  its  outer  courts  and  col- 
umns and  its  massive  walls.  Upon  his  canvas  of 
immortal  vision,  all  athrill  with  poetic  beauty  and 
inspiration,  the  obscure  genius  sometimes  portrays 
pictures  of  living  thought  and  life — pictures  that 
forever  glow  in  the  radiant  glory  of  unfading  light. 

Thus  it  is  that  since  the  earliest  stars  in  the 
bright  constellation  of  the  western  writers  began 
to  appear,  the  reading  public  have  been  eagerly 
scanning  each  new  light  conjecturing  if  perchance 
it  might  not  be  a  new  planet — a  new  luminary 
brighter  and  more  enduring  than  the  mere  flash 
of  a  passing  meteor  or  the  dying  spark  of  a  falling 
star.  But  those  were  pioneer  times,  pioneer  man- 
ners, and  pioneer  men — even  the  infusion  from  the 
East  grew  to  be  pioneer  in  strength  of  body,  pio- 
neer in  vigor  of  intellect,  and  pioneer  in  passion 


36 OREGON  LITERA  TURE. 


and  fervor  of  imagination — so  that  the  whole  west- 
ern life  came  to  be  that  bold,  daring,  dashing,  ad- 
venturous life,  peculiar  to  the  woodsman,  the 
gold  hunter,  the  Indian  fighter,  the  Pacific  coast 
pioneer.  Hence  it  was  but  natural  that  there 
should  arise  amidst  these  wild  mountain  scenes  a 
genius  whose  poetry  is  tropical  in  its  profusion  of 
color,  eastern  in  the  glowing  heat  of  its  impetuous 
passion,  and  western  in  its  sincerity  and  wildness. 
Schooled  in  the  lore  of  the  miner's  camp,  and  sur- 
rounded by  scenes,  wild,  quaint  and  curious — the 
hill,  the  valley,  the  mountain  gorge,  the  mighty 
river,  the  warm  path  of  the  deer,  the  elk,  the  pan- 
ther, the  bear,  and  the  savage — poems  of  nature; 
exalted  with  visions  of  lofty  firs,  towering  forests, 
and  majestic  mountains,  whose  music  is  softened 
and  sweetened  with  the  rhythm  of  the  gurgling 
brook  and  the  cadence  of  sighing  boughs  and 
mountain  zephyrs — it  is  not  surprising  that  a  genius 
like  Joaquin  Miller  should  suddenly  appear  and 
attract  attention  on  account  of  his  strange  back- 
ground, rich  coloring,  gorgeous  descriptions  and 
gigantic  scenery.  Nature  and  Burns  and  Byron 
and  Swinburne  were  his  masters;  and  he  learned 
from  them  a  certain  wild  freedom  and  passion  of 
song  that  have  enriched  his  poems  with  truthful- 
ness and  an  almost  cloying  sweetness  of  rhythm 
and  rhyme.  Of  the  latter-day  poets  whose  works 
have  become  famous,  the  new  world  has  produced 
its  full  share.  Whittier,  Bryant,  Longfellow, 


JOAQUIX  MILLER,  POET  OF  THE  SIERRAS. 


OREGON  LITERATURE. 


Holmes,  Lowell,  and  a  score  of  others  represent 
the  East,  while  Bret  Harte,  Col.  Baker,  Samuel  L. 
Simpson,  Minnie  Myrtle  Miller,  Ella  Higginson, 
and  many  others  have  caught  and  fixed  the  bright- 
est tints  of  the  western  sunset,  and  sung  sweet 
melodies  along  the  golden  shores  of  the  Pacific; 
but  among  the  first  of  the  Western  poets,  and 
superior  to  them  all,  is  Oregon's  adopted  son, 
Joaquin  Miller,  the  subject  of  this  sketch, — he  who 
has  said  to  the  world: 

"In   men  whom  men   condemn   as  ill 

I   find   so  much   of   goodness   still, 

In  men  whom  men  pronounce  divine 

I  find  so  much  of  sin  and  blot, 

I  hesitate   to  draw  a  line 

Between   the  two  when   God  has  not." 

He  has  attracted  more  attention  and  provoked 
more  discussion  than  any  other  one  of  them  all. 
Adverse  criticism  no  less  than  the  praise  he  has 
won  marks  him  as  a  poet  of  no  ordinary  talent, 
and  insures  him  a  lasting  place  in  literature.  Today 
he  can  truly  say  to  those  who  derided  his  earliest 
efforts,  as  Joseph  said  to  his  brethren,  "Ye  thought 
evil  of  me,  but  God  meant  it  for  good."  They  had 
sold  Joseph  into  slavery,  but  when  they  were  hun- 
gry, he  gave  them  bread,  and  they  were  reconciled 
unto  each  other;  the  poet,  like  Joseph,  has  given 
his  brethren  bread  when  they  were  hungry.  Will 
.they  not  be  reconciled  unto  him? 


OREGON  LITER  A  TURK. 


While  traveling  in  California,  recently,  I  could 
not  resist  the  temptation  offered  to  visit  the  recluse 
poet  in  his  home  at  Oakland  Heights,  where  he 
dwells  as  Walt.  Whitman  and  all  true  children  of 
nature  love  to  dwell,  surrounded  by  rural  scenes, 
in  close  communion  with  nature.  The  drive  from 
East  Oakland  to  the  Heights,  a  distance  of  two 
miles,  is  beautiful  in  the  extreme.  Broad  and 
smooth,  the  road  skirts  'a  ravine  and  winds  about 
the  hill:  it  is  cool  and  refreshing,  being  shaded  on 
either  side  by  Monterey  Cyprus,  eucalyptus,  and 
acacia  trees.  On  arriving  at  the  poet's  home,  the 
first  sight  one  gets  of  the  man  is  furnished  by  the 
home  he  has  built  for  his  mother.  His  father  be- 
ing long  since  dead,  with  loving  hand  the  poet  has 
drawn  his  mother  away  from  the  more  active  strug- 
gles of  life  to  spend  her  remaining  days  with  him 
on  the  mountain  near  the  clouds.  Then  the  con- 
servatory filled  with  choice  flowers  speaks  of  him 
as  a  lover  of  nature,  but  the  man — the  lover  of 
nature — the  poet  himself — was  found  in  bed,  in  a 
little  cell  whose  dimensions  and  primitive  simplic- 
ity forcibly  suggested  the  early  settlement  of  the 
coast.  Although  only  3  o'clock  in  the  afternoon, 
he  had  retired  to  rest,  but  received  us  most  gra- 
ciously without  rising.  I  was  invited  to  a  seat  on 
the  bed  at  his  feet,  while  my  wife  occupied  the 
only  chair  in  the  room.  Here  was  a  man  who  had 
received  the  hospitality  of  the  most  polished  men 
and  women  of  Europe,  a  man  who  had  been  a 


OREGON  LITERATURE. 


welcome  guest  in  the  most  magnificent  dwellings 
in  the  old  world,  a  man  whose  attainments  now 
entitle  him  to  a  welcome  to  any  society  he  may 
enter,  a  man  who  had  abandoned  all  to  follow  the 
bent  of  his  genius  and  to  live  with  the  primitive 
surroundings  of  a  pioneer,  with  wants  as  simple  as 
those  of  a  child. 

A  survey  of  the  apartment  revealed  a  pair  of 
trousers  and  high-heeled  boots  suspended  from 
nails  driven  in  the  wall,  an  ancient  bureau  in  one 
corner,  a  horse-hide  rug  on  the  floor,  and  a  straw 
hat  banded  with  a  scarlet  ribbon  ornamenting  one 
of  the  high  posts  of  the  bed.  Then  the  eye  catches 
a  number  of  folded  papers  tacked  to  the  wall  above 
the  poet's  head:  these  are  letters  received  from 
distinguished  literary  persons.  And,  last,  we  were 
shown  the  photograph  of  an  Indian  maiden,  daugh- 
ter of  Old  John,  chief  of  the  Rogue  Rivers,  whose 
subjugation  in  1856  cost  many  lives  and  two  mil- 
lion dollars.  There  were  no  lamps,  candles,  or 
books  to  be  seen.  The  poet  rises  with  the  birds, 
and  with  them  he  retires.  He  never  burns  "the 
midnight  oil"  and  complains  that  there  are  too 
many  books.  He  declares  that  men  rely  too  much 
on  books;  and  that  they  are  valued  by  the  number 
of  books  that  they  carry  with  them,  whether  or 
not  they  know  anything  of  nature  or  of  nature's 
God  of  whom  books  should  speak. 

Everything  about  the  man  is  quaint,  everything 
around  him  is  curious.  The  rug  on  the  floor  is 


40  OREGON  LITERATURE. 


said  to  be  the  skin  of  a  faithful  steed  which  carried 
General  Fremont  across  the  plains  in  1843.  It  has 
been  related,  though  we  saw  no  evidence  of  it, 
that  he  has  a  hose  attached  to  a  pipe  from  a  spring 
above  the  house  in  such  a  manner  that  he  can 
cause  the  water  to  fall  in  a  shower  on  the  roof 
when  he  wants  to  write.  If  this  be  true,  it  must 
be  intended  as  a  compliment  to  Oregon  where  it 
rains  so  much,  and  where  the  poet's  boyhood  days 
were  spent.  There  seems  to  be  nothing  in  him 
like  other  men  except  his  care  for  flowers  and  his 
love  for  his  mother.  But  the  poet — it  is  he  of 
whom  we  now  speak — once  his  lips  move,  and  the 
little  room  with  its  quaint  furniture,  bare  floor, 
walls  and  ceiling,  disappear;  and  we  stand  with 
bared  brows  beneath  the  broad  canopy  above, 
while  our  ears  are  filled  with  the  murmuring  of 
gurgling  streams  whose  surface  gives  back  10 
heaven  the  light  of  countless  stars.  Old  words 
take  on  new  meaning;  old  thoughts  stand  forth 
new  born,  and  living  waters  follow  every  stroke. 
We  were  interested  in  all  he  said,  but  time  admon- 
ished us  to  trespass  no  longer  on  his  resting  hours. 
Reluctantly  we  said  "good  bye"  and  were  glad  our 
road  wound  lingeringly  around  the  hill  so  the 
transition  was  less  abrupt  from  the  poet's  ideal 
world  to  the  busy,  bustling  scenes  of  every-day 
city  life  on  the  plain  below;  yet  our  thoughts  were 
still  of  the  poet  on  the  mountain  where  he  is  keep- 
ing vigil,  his  ear  filled  with  the  low,  sweet  music 


OR  EG  ON  L 1 TERA  TURE. 


of  nature,  while  his  eye  catches  visions  from  the 
clouds  which  pass  over  his  head. 

His  numerous  works  and  particularly  his  recent- 
ly published  volume  of  poems,  "The  Songs  of  the 
Soul,"  show  him  to  be  no  idler.  His  spindle  and 
distaff  are  ever  in  his  hand;  he  spins  the  flax  God 
sends,  handing  the  threads  down  to  his  fellows  on 
the  plain.  May  we  not  weave  some  of  them  into 
the  woof  or  warp  of  our  lives? 

On  our  return  home  Hon.  George  A.  Waggoner, 
an  old  schoolmate  and  friend  of  the  poet,  handed 
me  a  sketch  published  in  a  Corvallis  paper  ten 
years  ago.  In  this,  Mr.  Waggoner,  who  has  writ- 
ten a  volume  that  may  yet  add  luster  to  Oregon 
lore,  speaks  so  beautifully  and  kindly  of  Joaquin 
Miller  as  known  among  his  associates  before  he 
attempted  to  write,  that  we  obtained  permission  to 
insert  the  following  extract: 

"The  first  man  I  met  among  the  fevered  crowd 
was  Oregon's  poet — my  old  schoolmate — Joaquin 
Miller.  His  blue  eyes  sparkled  with  kindly  greet- 
ing, and,  as  I  took  his  hand,  I  knew  by  its  quick- 
ening pulse  and  tightened  clasp  that  he  too  was 
sharing  in  the  excitement  of  the  gold  hunter.  He 
was  then  in  the  first  flush  of  manhood,  with  buoy- 
ant spirits,  untiring  energy,  and  among  a  race  of 
hardy  pioneers;  the  bravest  of  the  brave.  He 
possessed  more  than  ordinary  talent  and  looked 
forward  with  hope  to  the  battle  of  life,  expecting 
to  reap  his  share  of  its  honors  and  rewards.  For 


OREGON  LITERATURE. 


years  he  was  foremost  in  every  desperate  enter- 
prise— crossing  snow-capped  mountains,  swollen 
rivers,  and  facing  hostile  Indians.  When  snow  fell 
fifteen  feet  deep  on  the  Florence  mountain,  and 
hundreds  were  penned  in  camp  without  a  word 
from  wives,  children,  and  loved  ones  at  home,  he 
said:  'Boys,  I  will  bring  your  letters  from  Lewis- 
ton/  Afoot  and  alone,  without  a  trail,  he  crossed 
the  mountain  tops,  the  dangerous  streams,  the 
wintry  desert  of  Camas  Prairie,  fighting  back  the 
hungry  mountain  wolves,  and  returned  bending  be- 
neath his  load  of  loving  messages  from  home. 
One  day  he  was  found  in  defence  of  the  weak, 
facing  the  pistol  or  bowie  knife  of  the  desperado; 
and  the  next  day  he  was  washing  the  clothes  and 
smoothing  the  pillow  of  a  sick  comrade.  We  all 
loved  him,  but  we  were  not  men  who  wrote  for 
the  newspaper  or  magazine,  and  his  acts  of  hero- 
ism and  kindness  were  unchronicled  save  in  the 
hearts  of  those  who  knew  him  in  those  times,  and 
under  those  trying  circumstances.  He  is  of  earth's 
first  blood,  but  has  seen  a  life  of  sorrow  and  dis- 
appointment. He  has  struggled  with  poverty  and 
unfavorable  circumstances,  yet  through  all  he  has 
been  true  to  his  own  land.  He  has  wooed  his 
muse,  and  tuned  his  lyre  across  the  great  waters; 
but  he  sang  of  his  boyhood  scenes,  of  the  Pacific 
coast,  its  great  rivers,  mountains,  and  men,  and 
has  been  true  to  them  all.  He  poetized  the  gran- 
deur of  our  land  so  nobly  as  to  electrify  all  Europe, 


OR  EG  ON  L I TE  !-,'A  T  UR  E. 


the  swelling  notes  of  his  praise  echoing  and  re- 
echoing until  they  have  reached  our  ears  from 
across  the  Atlantic." 

Joaquin  Miller's  complete  poetical  works  have 
been  abridged  and  published  in  a  very  neat  volume 
of  330  pages.  The  poet  of  the  Sierras  has  become 
his  own  censor  so  that  he  might  give  to  the  world 
in  one  volume  only  the  cream  of  all  that  he  has 
written;  and  no  critic  could  have  been  more  judi- 
cious and  severe  than  he.  The  preface  is  an  auto- 
biography coupled  with  some  of  his  "lessons  not 
found  in  books."  This  is  Joaquin  Miller's  great- 
est book,  for  in  it  his  gentleness  of  manner  and 
simplicity  of  style  leads  the  reader  to  feel  that  the 
bard  upon  the  Heights  has  in  the  evening  of  life 
tuned  his  harp  in  perfect  accord  with  the  sweeter, 
softer,  gentler  strains  of  the  bird  song  in  the  land 
of  the  western  sunset. 


England  insists  on  placing  Joaquin  Miller  in  the 
front  rank  of  living  American  poets.  But  Joaquin 
Miller's  life  and  lines  can  never  be  fully  under- 
stood and  appreciated  without  some  acquaintance 
with  Minnie  Myrtle  Miller,  his  wife,  who  stood 
unrivalled  for  her  peculiar  versatility.  She  could 
carry  a  gun  into  the  mountain  fastness  and  slay  a 
deer,  an  elk,  or  a  bear,  on  which  to  dine,  or  she 
could  relapse  into  quietude  and  write  a  poem  that 
showed  undoubted  genius,  or  she  could  appear  in 
high  social  circles  with  a  queenly  grace  and  there 
entertain  the  rich  and  the  princely. 


OBEQOS  LITERATURE. 


MINNIE  MYRTLE  MILLER. 


Is  there  something  about  poetic  talent  that  ren- 
ders its  possessor  unhappy?  Is  the  gift  fatal  to  the 
fullest  enjoyment  of  life?  Does  its  fervid  warmth 
destroy  the  shrine  whereon  its  fires  burn,  or  its 
smallest  spark  scar  the  breast  which  holds  it? 
These  are  questions  often  asked,  and  the  lives  of 
our  poets  have  furnished  evidence  contradictory  in 
the  extreme.  Those  who  have  become  intimately 
acquainted  with  many  of  them  often  pause  in  read- 
ing their  inspiring  strains  to  muse  sadly  over  the 
wrecked  hopes,  and  unhappy  lives  of  those  who 
have  tuned  to  rhythm  and  set  to  melody  the  hearts 
of  all  the  peoples  of  earth. 

We  candidly  confess  our  inability  at  this  time 
to  summon  sufficient  testimony  to  decide  these 
questions,  but  would  suggest  that  should  their 
affirmative  be  established  then  must  the  world  feel 
additional  gratitude  to  its  songsters,  to  those  who 
have  followed  the  bent  of  their  genius  in  striving 
to  elevate  and  ennoble  mankind  while  destroying 
their  own  share  of  its  happiness.  Although  it  may 
be  difficult  to  disprove  the  theory  somewhat  preva- 
lent that  poets  are  restless,  irritable  and  unhappy 
in  their  social  relations  with  their  fellows,  yet  it  is 
so  adverse  to  the  generally  acknowledged  bene- 
ficence of  the  laws  of  nature  which  must  control 
the  endowment  of  mental  powers  and  attributes 


MINNIE  MYRTLE  MILLER,  POETESS  OF  THE  COQUELLE. 


OREGON  LI TERA  T URE.  45 


as  well  as  physical  organization  and  development, 
that  we  incline  to  the  belief  that  poetic  talents  no 
more  than  those  which  enrich  the  fields  of  science, 
literature  and  art  should  contain  an  inherent  ten- 
dency to  render  their  possessor  unhappy.  All  pio- 
neers, in  whatever  line  of  thought  or  action  their 
labors  may  lie,  must  feel  at  times  a  sense  of  lone- 
liness and  isolation,  akin  to  that  felt  by  one  who 
has  been  selected  for  his  peculiar  fitness  to  go  into 
a  strange  land  to  mark  the  way  for  the  coming 
multitude.  We  cannot  but  imagine  that  though  his 
journey  by  day  and  his  campfires  by  night  do  not 
bring  him  the  pleasure  of  social  companionship,  he 
has  abundant  joy  and  the  keenest  delight  in  the 
thought  that  ere  long  a  joyous  crowd  shall  come 
along  his  path  hailing  with  pleasure  the  land- 
marks he  has  made  for  guidance  in  their  journey 
through  a  beautiful  and  virgin  land.  May  not  the 
bright  blaze  of  his  campfire  reveal  a  face  beaming 
with  pleasure  and  fall  upon  a  breast  swelling  with 
pride  as  he  reflects  that  he  has  marked  a  way  over 
the  sunniest  slope  and  greenest  meadows,  and  left 
hints  where  the  multitude  when  weary  may  rest 
and  refresh  themselves  in  the  most  enchanting 
vales  beside  rippling  streams?  But  it  maybe  read- 
ily understood  it  is  a  source  of  unhappiness  for 
one  to  feel  the  possession  of  talents  whose  culti- 
vation is  calculated  to  benefit  mankind  and  leave 
an  enduring  name,  and  yet  to  be  so  environed  by 
circumstances  as  to  render  such  cultivation  impos- 


OREGON  LITERATURE. 


sible.  The  cry  of  the  poor  caged  starling,  "I  can't 
get  out,"  is  echoed  by  many  a  talented  mind  when 
its  possessor  is  surrounded  by  poverty  and  other 
circumstances  unfavorable  to  mental  development. 
We  know  of  no  one  whose  life's  history  more 
forcibly  illustrates  this  restless  longing  for  larger 
and  higher  sphere  of  action  than  the  subject  of  this 
sketch,  Minnie  Myrtle  Miller.  Thirty-six  years  ago 
when  the  war-cloud  lowered  heavy  and  dark  over 
our  land,  when  there  were  heard  criminations  and 
recriminations  everywhere,  when  the  deliberations 
of  our  congress  assumed  the  form  of  angry  debate, 
when  the  startling  cry  of  "traitor"  was  heard  echo- 
ing through  the  halls  dedicated  to  liberty,  when 
father  and  son  held  bitter  converse,  and  brothers 
prepared  to  array  themselves  as  enemies  in  deadly 
combat,  when  every  home  in  the  land  was  shocked 
by  the  clash  of  arms  and  the  tramp  of  mustering 
steeds — she  first  was  known  through  the  public 
press  and  beyond  the  immediate  neighborhood  of 
her  home.  Even  there  though  furthest  removed 
from  the  seat  of  war  on  the  extreme  western  verge 
of  civilization,  she  heard  among  her  few  associates 
angry  words  spoken  by  youthful  tongues  and  read 
fiery  sentences  penned  by  aged  hands.  Hers  was 
a  nature  too  gentle,  too  kind,  too  sweet  to  sound 
or  even  echo  the  notes  of  war.  When  all  the  land 
was  a  Babel  of  angry  voices,  hers  was  clear  and 
sweet.  She  wrote  of  her  home,  her  friends,  of  the 
sunlit  waves  of  the  Pacific  which  smoothed  the 


OREGON  LITERATURE. 


sands  for  her  feet,  and  told  the  beautiful  stories 
whispered  by  the  tall  pines  as  she  wandered  through 
the  groves. 

Her  name  was  Theresa  Dyer;  with  the  quick  C2.** 
for  the  musical,  which  characterized  all  her  writ- 
ings, she  adopted  the  nom  de  plume  of  "Minnie 
Myrtle,"  and  sent  her  productions — both  prose  and 
verse — to  the  neighboring  weekly  papers.  Her 
future  husband,  Cincinnatus  Heine  Miller,  since 
known  as  "Joaquin  Miller,"  was  at  that  time  writ- 
ing for  the  same  papers,  wild,  weird  and  sometimes 
blood-thirsty  stories,  signed  "Giles  Gaston."  In 
one  of  these,  in  which  he  thrillingly  depicted  a 
battle  on' the  border  with  the  Indians,  he  expressed 
a  desire  to  become  acquainted  with  the  sweet  singer 
of  the  Coquelle,  whoever  she  might  be.  Although 
but  a  youth,  he  knew  none  but  a  sweet  young  girl, 
filled  with  all  the  pleasing  fancies  and  fallacies  of 
life,  could  write  as  she  did.  In  Minnie's  next 
story  was  given  her  address;  and  the  correspond- 
ence, which  a  few  months  later  resulted  in  her 
marriage  to  the  poet,  began  by  his  mailing  her  an 
appreciative  letter  inclosing  a  tin-type  picture  of 
himself.  He  was  tall,  strong,  and  not  graceless  in 
a  woman's  eye.  He  found  her  gentle,  .handsome 
and  sweet,  in  the  first  flush  of  young  womanhood. 
Their  first  meeting  sealed  their  fate.  After  seven 
years  of  married  life  they  were  separated,  Joaquin 
going  to  Europe,  while  the  saddened  mother,  with 
her  three  children,  returned  to  her  father's  home. 


OREGON  LITERATURE. 


The  cause  of  their  separation  is  still  a  mystery; 
whether  some  rude  shock  broke  the  bonds  which 
love  had  tied,  or  ardent  love  was  slowly  crushed 
to  death  by  the  attrition  of  dissimilar  natures  was 
never  known.  Certain  it  is  that  neither  was  happy 
after  their  separation.  The  life  of  each  was  sad- 
dened before  it  had  well  begun.  At  the  early  age 
of  thirty-seven,  when  the  poor,  tired  mother  laid 
down  her  burden,  she  was  soothed  by  the  tender 
words  and  sustained  by  the  strong  arm  of  the  poet 
lover  who  had  won  her  maiden  heart  in  the  spring- 
time of  life.  She  died  in  New  York,  surrounded 
with  friends,  leaving  unfinished  several  poems  and 
a  sketch  of  her  life  which  she  labored  hard  to  com- 
plete before  her  summons  came.  It  has  never  been 
published.  The  manuscript,  although  undoubtedly 
worthy  of  preservation,  became  misplaced  and  can- 
not now  be  found.  Her  friends  deeply  regret  this, 
but  it  may  be  best  that  it  was  lost.  While  it  would 
surely  have  found  a  ready  sale,  it  could  not  but  have 
brought  to  its  readers  more  tears  than  smiles.  A 
key  to  much  of  this  lost  story  of  her  life  appears 
to  be  given  in  these  lines  of  her  poem,  "At  the 
Land's  End." 

"I    am    conscript— hurriel    to    battle 

With  fates— yet  I  fain  would  be 

Vanquished  and  silenced  forever 

And   driven   back    to   my   sea. 

Oh!  to  leave   this  strife,   this  turmoil, 

Leave  all  undone  and  skim 

AVith  the  clouds  that  flee  to  the  hill  tops 

And  rest  forever  with  Him." 


OREGON  LITERATURE.  49 


<$ems  of  ©regon. 


50  OREGON  LITERATURE. 


OUR     EMBLEM     FLOWER. 


Copyright  1889,   by  Wiley  B.   Allen. 


Wild  flower  of  Oregon, 
Loved   by    each    native    son, 
Of  thee  we  sing. 
Emblem   of  hope  and   pride, 

Along    the    mountain-side, 
Down  to  the  ocean's  tide, 

We  praises  bring. 

From  cascades  to  dell, 
Where  birds   in   echo   swell, 

Their  songs  so  free, 
Where    rolls   the  Oregon, 

By  love's  sweet  labor  won, 
From   morn    to   setting-  sun, 

We   sing   of   thee. 

From    Hood's    prophetic    crest, 
Throughout   the  golden   West, 

In    every    bower, 
Columbia's  breeze  has  blown, 

Sweet    yellow    petals    grown, 
"Wild    grape    of    Oregon," 

Our  emblem  flower. 

— Ena   M.   White. 

*The  Oregon  grape  is  the  Oregon   state  flower.    The 
marguerite  is  the  emblem  of  the  Oregon  Native  Sons. 


OREGON  LITERATURE.  51 


JAMES     G.     CLARKE. 

Miss  Leona  Smith  says:  "Poetry  and  Song," 
written  by  James  G.  Clark,  for  many  years  a  res- 
ident of  Grants  Pass,  Oregon,  does  not  possess 
all  the  elements  necessary  to  world-wide  renown, 
but  it  will  undoubtedly  continue  to  be  an  inspira- 
tion to  many  throughout  this  nation.  The  poems 
have  a  sweet,  soft,  sad,  melody  which  reveal  to  us 
the  suffering  of  the  author.  They  are  not  the 
hopeless  longings  of  a  soul  unsatisfied,  but  they 
are  the  expression  of  one  who  is  sure  of  a  place 
in  his  Father's  home  He  even  fancies  that 

"He  catches  the  sweet  strains  of  songs 
Floating    down    from    distant    throng's 
And  can  feel   the  touch  of  hands 
Reaching  out  from  angel   bands." 

Purity  is  one  of  the  prominent  traits  of  his  writ- 
ings. He  wrote  some  very  tender  love  poems, 
but  they  are  all  on  the  strain  of  "I  cannot  live  with- 
out you."  Many  of  his  poems  are  of  childhood; 
in  one  he  says: 

"Friends  of  my   childhood 

Tender  and  loving, 

Scattered  like  leaves  over  a  desolate  plain 

Dreams  of  childhood,  where  are  you  roving, 

Never  to  gladden  my  pathway  of  pain." 

The  poem  "Look  Up,"  is  representative  of  his 
work;  it  is 


52  OREGON  LITERA  TURE. 


"Look   up,   look   up,   desponding  soul! 

The  clouds  are  only   seeming, 
The  light  behind   the   darkening   scroll 

Eternally   is  -beaming." 

"There   is   no   death,    there   is    no   night, 

No  life  nor  day  declining, 
Beyond  the  day's  departing  light, 

The    sun    is    always    shining." 

"Could   we  but  pierce  the   rolling  storms 
That  veil   the  pathway  southward, 

We'd  s/ee  a   host  of  shining  forms 
Forever    looking  onward." 

"The  Mount  of  the  Holy  Cross,"  which  is  num- 
bered among  American  classics,  is  his  greatest 
poem. 


MRS.     S.    WATSON    HAMILTON. 

On  taking  up  a  volume  of  Byron,  the  careful 
reader  will  feel  that  the  author  had  chosen  Edmund 
Spenser  as  his  model.  And  while  some  of  the 
proofs  for  his  opinion  may  be  so  subtle  as  to 
baffle  all  analysis,  yet  we  believe  he  was  correct 
in  his  opinion.  So,  in  reading  "The  Angel  of  the 
Covenant"  for  the  first  time,  the  reader  will  feel 
that  the  authoress  has  taken  Milton  as  her  model, 
wrought  out  a  theme,  and  then  wrote  the  book 
with  her  Bible  on  her  knee.  The  poem  is  prob- 


OREGON  LITERATURE.  53 


ably  the  longest  religious  epic  written  in  Oregon. 
The  peculiar  nature  of  the  subject  and  lengthy 
treatment  given  it  has  destined  the  poem  to  re- 
semble the  "Paradise  Lost"  in  the  fact  that  its 
number  of  admirers  will  excel  its  number  of  read- 
ers. It  is  not  at  all  presumptuous  to  assert  that 
the  poem  will  live  a  century  hence  it  must  be  a 
satisfaction  to  believe  that  one's  writings  will  go 
on  preaching  some  immortal  truth  to  the  children 
of  men  long  after  the  author  has  finished  her  work. 

Throughout  the  poem,  Mrs.  Hamilton  deals  with 
stern  religious  truths  as  awful  facts,  and  exhibits 
a  devotional  spirit  directed  by  that  wisdom  that 
comes  from  philosophy  and  interpretation;  her 
poems  are  therefore  intellectual.  She  rarely  alludes 
to  nature,  but,  if  she  were  to  enjoy  a  bouquet  of 
flowers,  she  would  revel  in  their  variety,  arrange- 
ment and  beauty,  and  be  delighted  with  their  fra- 
grance, which  would  be  poetical;  unconsciously 
she  might  go  a  step  further  and  ask  why  are  they 
beautiful?  This  would  still  be  poetical.  But 
when  she  begins  to  analyze  their  aroma  to  ascer- 
tain the  kinds  and  the  proportion  of  each  that 
pleases  her  she  enters  a  realm  of  investigation  which 
causes  most  minds  to  think  so  intensely  that  the 
heart  loses  its  opportunity  to  feel.  Hence,  at  times 
the  poem  becomes  somwhat  metaphysical,  and  con- 
sequently appreciated  by  those  who  read  it  more 
as  food  for  the  mind  than  as  food  for  the  heart. 

The   poem    which    contains    about    1,500    lines    is 


54  OREGON  LITERATURE. 


divided   into   three  books,   the   first   of   which   pur- 
sues the  following  argument: 

BOOK  I.— There  is  one  God  of  whom  mind  is  an  off- 
spring through  division;  Wisdom  and  Death  are 
personified;— man  represents  the  evil  nature  ajid 
woman  a  nature  that  was  "slain"  by  her  faith  in 
the  Word  of  God,  while  Adam  of  the  Covenant 
fills  the  figure  of  Christ,  who,  as  the  Voice  of  God, 
is  the  Bow  of  the  Conqueror.  As  the  Forbidden 
Tree  is  the  sword  of  the  Divider,  the  records  of 
the  Heavenly  Garden  are  of  knowledge  of  which 
Israel  ia  an  allegory,  and  the  visions  of  St.  John, 
revelations.  The  first  description  is  of  the  rise  and 
fall  of  the  first  Kingdom  of  Knowledge,  a  house 
that  was  built  on  the  sand. 

BOOK  II.— This  is  a  description  of  the  second  King- 
dom of  Knowledge,  where  man  by  eating  the  For- 
bidden Fruit,  awakes  from  spiritual  death,  recalls 
his  knowledge  of  the  past,  and  is  born  a  living  soul. 
The  seven  angels  with  the  seven  trumpets  are- 
symbols  of  the  curses  under  which  man  fell  and 
his  resurrection. 

BOOK  III.— Adam,  the  Temple  of  the  Voice,  of  which 
Christ  is  the  finished  work,  is  measured  into  years 
from  Eden  to  Calvary;  Christ  is  the  figure  of  the 
two  witnesses  of  God.  The  generations  of  Wisdom 
are  recalled  as  visions.  Mystery  is  spiritual  night, 
to  which  the  presence  of  God  is  the  corresponding 


OREGON  LITERATURE.  55 


day.  The  image  of  the  spoken  word  preserves  a 
knowledge  of  the  light  while  darkness  reigns.  In 
Adam  the  generations  of  knowledge  are  perpetual, 
who  is  of  Wisdom  the  first,  and  last,  the  beginning 
and  the  end.  May  the  conditions  of  man  always 
meet  the  demands  of  knowledge. 


ELLA   HIGGINSON. 

In  speaking  of  Mrs.  Ella  Higginson,  the  "Ore- 
gonian"  recently  said: 

"Mrs.  Higginson  is  a  typical  American  woman, 
a  very  interesting  conversationalist,  and  she  has 
achieved  brilliant  success  as  an  author  of  both 
prose  and  poetry.  She  has  taken  several  first 
prizes  for  stories,  the  last  being  the  McClure  prize 
of  $500.  The  products  of  her  pen  are  eagerly 
sought  by  Eastern  publishers,  and  are  now  issued 
by  the  McMillans.  Her  latest  books  are  'The 
Flower  That  Grew  in  the  Sand,'  'From  the  Land 
of  the  Snowpearls,'  and  'A  Forest  Orchid/  and 
she  will  soon  have  ready  a  new  book  of  poems 
entitled  'When  the  Birds  Go  North  Again.'  " 

Mrs.  Higginson  began  her  literary  career  in 
Oregon,  wrote  her  first  story  for  the  Oregon  Vi- 
dette,  in  Portland,  in  1879.  She  passed  her  girl- 
hood in  LaGrande  and  Oregon  City,  and  has 
many  pleasant  memories  of  those  towns,  and  espe- 
cially of  the  inspiring  scenery  surrounding  the 


56  OREGON  LITERA  TURE. 


well-named  Grand  Ronde  valley.  Before  marriage 
she  was  Miss  Ella  Rhodes,  and  her  old  school- 
mates  well  remember  her,  and  are  glad  that  her 
literary  productions  are  brightening  thousands  of 
homes  throughout  the  land  and  that  her  fame  is 
growing. 


BLANCHE    FEARING. 

All  peoples  have  had  their  blind  bards  who 
gave  the  world  some  message  that  was  withheld 
from  those  "who  having  eyes  yet  see  not;"  and 
we  say  this  is  a  Homer  who  inspired  the  soldiery 
of  the  world,  or  an  Ossian  who  made  Scottish 
legends  more  precious,  or  a  Milton  who  "under- 
took what  no  man  ought  to  have  undertaken,  and 
did  with  it  what  no  other  man  could  have  done" 
— described  heaven.  It  would  be  presumptuous  to 
claim  that  we  have  had  either  of  these,  but  we 
have  had  a  blind  poetess  who  like  a  comet  swept 
suddenly  across  our  orbit.  Her  name  was  Lilian 
Blanche  Fearing.  No  one  knew  whence  she  came 
or  whither  she  went;  but  sometime  in  the  quiet 
city  of  Roseburg  she  learned  of  a  sleeping  infant  and 
left  these  lines  which  may  be  found  in  her  book 
entitled  ''The  Sleeping  World": 

LET     HIM     SLEEP. 
Oh,  do  not  wake  the  little  one, 
With  flowing  curl  upon  his  face, 


OREGON  LI TERA  T URE.  57 


Like    strands    of   light    dropped    from    the    sun, 
And   mingled   there   in   golden   grace! 

Oh,   tell   him   not   the  moments   run 
Through   life's   frail   fingers   in   swift   chase! 
"Let   him   sleep,    let   him   sjleep!" 

There  cometh  a  "day  when  light  is  pain, 

When   he  will  lean   his   head  away, 
And  sunward  hold  his  palm,   to  gain 

A  respite  from   the   glare  of  day; 

For  no  fiond   lip   will   smile,    and   say, 

"Let   him   sleep,    let   him   sjleep!" 

Hush!    hush!    wake   not    the   child! 

Just  now  a  light  shone  from   within, 
And  through   his  lips  an   angel   smiled, 

Too  fresh  from  heaven  for  grief  to  win; 
Oh,   children  are  God's  undented, 

Too   fresh   from   heaven   to   dream   of   sfin! 
"Let   him   sleep,    let  him   sjeep!" 

i 

The  volume,  which  contains  a  score  or  more  of 
short  poems,  reveals  poetic  ideas  as  well  as  poetic 
language;  and  when  you  find  both  in  the  same 
selection  you  are  pleased  with  it  and  feel  like  lin- 
gering on  certain  choice  passages  so  as  to  drink 
in  the  full  meaning;  and,  frequently,  the  reader 
yields  to  the  inclination  to  read  the  entire  poem 
again  and  again.  The  authoress  exhibits  many 
indications  of  growth,  so  that  later,  we  may  ex- 
pect another  and  a  greater  volume  from  her  pen. 


68  OREGON  LITERATURE. 

HENRY     H.     WOODWARD. 

Near  where  the  Umpquas  meet,  "the  veteran 
soldier-poet,"  Henry  H.  Woodward,  has  pitched 
his  tent  and  sung  his  song.  Quiet,  homelike  and 
peaceful  are  his  haunts;  sweet,  tender,  and  serene, 
his  song.  A  half  century  of  travel  and  war  and 
touch  with  men  rings  in  the  "Lyrics  of  the  Ump- 
qua."  The  spirit  of  his  song  is  love  and  friend- 
ship, and  religion  as  influenced  by  the  land  and 
the  sea;  and  he  records  a  memorial  to  many  a 
friend  who  lives  in  poetry,  but  not  in  the  history 
of  men.  It  is  true  that  he  is  neither  a  Shakespeare, 
a  Milton,  nor  a  Byron,  but  his  writings  prove  to 
us  that  he  has  a  good  heart,  that  he  upholds  the 
right,  and  speaks  a  cherry  word  to  every  fellow 
traveler;  hence  we  sit  down  contentedly  under  his 
melodies,  little  regarding  the  strain  of  his  song 
or  the  march  of  its  music. 

In  his  "Mariner's  Life"  we  read — 

"On   the   raging   deep   they   often    see 
Humanity's    blessings    freely    poured; 
Where  the  weak  to  the  strong  for  succor  flee, 
And  pity  is  oft  in  a  rough  bosom  stored." 

|n  the  "Apostrophe  to  the  Ocean"  are  these 
lines, — 

"Deep  and  expansive  sea  which  encircleth 
This    terrestrial    siphere,    sublimely 


OR  EG  ON  L ITERAT  URE.  59 

Grand  and  beautiful;  in  calmly  mood, 

Like  an  infant  in  placid  slumber  dreaming." 

You   will  observe   a   finger   pointing   heavenward 
in  the  following  lines,  — 

"M'ortal!  remember  that  life   to   thee  was  given 
By  Him  who  rules  o'er  earth  and  heaven; 
The  universe  was  made  by  His  Almighty  hand, 
And  He  empowered  man  to  subdue  the  land." 

Elsewhere  he  says, — 

"Where'er  we  stray,  O  God,   we  find, 
Some   marks   of   thy   Almighty   Hand." 


COL.   E.   D.    BAKER. 

Among  the  great  orations  of  Col.  Edward  Dick- 
inson Baker  were  his  great  Union  speech  made 
in  Platt  hall,  San  Francisco,  while  on  his  way  to 
Washington,  as  senator-elect  from  Oregon;  his 
oration  on  the  occasion  of  celebrating  the  laying 
of  the  Atlantic  cable,  made  in  1853;  his  oration  on 
the  occasion  of  the  death  of  Broderick.  One  who 
heard  Col.  Baker's  oration  at  Salem  on  the  Fourth 
of  July,  1860,  said:  "The  orator's  fame  had  spread 
far  and  near,  and  when  the  speaker  began  th^ 
crowd  was  so  vast  that  fully  one-fourth  were  for- 
tunate in  finding  standing  room;  but  the  eloquence 
of  the  speaker  was  such  that  in  less  than  twenty 
minutes  all  were  standing." 


60  OREGON  LITERATURE. 

The  following  is  selected  from  his  great  Union 
speech,  and  is  especially  appropriate  in  this  place: 

"Here,  then,  long  years  ago,  I  took  my  stand 
by  Freedom;  and  where  the  feet  of  my  youth  were 
planted,  there  my  manhood  and  my  age  shall 
march.  And,  for  one,  I  am  not  ashamed  of  Free- 
dom. I  know  her  power;  I  glory  in  her  strength. 
I  have  seen  her  again  and  again  struck  down  on 
a  hundred  chosen  fields  of  battle.  I  have  seen  her 
foes  gather  around  her,  and  bind  her  to  the  stake. 
I  have  seen  them  give  her  ashes  to  the  winds,  re- 
gathering  them  again,  that  they  might  scatter  them 
yet  more  widely.  But  when  they  turned  to  exult, 
I  have  seen  her  again  meet  them,  face  to  face, 
clad  in  complete  steel,  and  brandishing  in  her 
strong  right  hand  a  flaming  sword,  red  with  in- 
sufferable light.  And,  therefore,  I  take  courage. 
The  people  gather  around  her  once  more.  The 
genius  of  America  will  at  last  lead  her  sons  to 
Freedom." 

May  we  briefly  follow  him  as  a  poet  while  he 
reads  a  page  from  the  volume  of  nature?  He  was 
probably  along  the  shore  near  where  Golden  Gate 
swings  out  into  the  deep,  or  where  Empire  City 
looks  out  upon  the  sea,  or  at  Seal  Rock,  where  the 
Siletz,  the  Alsea,  and  the  Yaquina  Indians  met  in 
festivity;  or  he  may  have  been  where  the  mighty 
Columbia  mingles  with  that  eternity  of  waters,  the 
Pacific  ocean.  It  was  evidently  just  after  the  eve- 
ning twilight,  when  the  dark  gray  of  the  night  was 


OREGON  LITERATURE.  61 


coming  on,  and  the  beautiful  stars,  "the  lovely 
forget-me-nots  of  the  angels  were  blossoming  in 
the  infinite  meadows  of  heaven."  Overhead  was 
the  sky  as  silent  as  a  summer  cloud;  and 'before 
him  was  the  sea  ever  changing,  ever  heaving,  ever 
restless  as  in  the  ages.  A  wave  caught  his  atten- 
tion, and  he  said: — 

Dost  thiou  seek  a  star,  with  thy  swelling  crest, 
O   wave,    that   leavest   thy   mother's   breast? 
Dost  thou  leap   from   the  prisoned   depths  below, 
In   scorn   of   their   calm   and   constant   flow? 
Or  art  thou  seeking  some  distant  land, 
To  die  in   murmurs  upon  the  strand?" 

A  prophet,  scholar  and  poet — his  mind  sweeps 
overt  he  wrecks  of  navies  and  armadas,  and  visions 
of  battles,  where  the  honor  of  nations  was  contest- 
ed, rise  before  him;  and  poet-like,  he  regards  the 
ocean  as  a  living,  breathing,  sympathizing  creat- 
ture,  and  thus  addresses  it; 

i 

"Hast  thou  tales  to  tell  of  the  pearl-lit  deep, 

Where   the  wave-whelmed  mariner   rocks  in   sleep? 
Canst   thou   speak   of  navies   that  sunk   in  pride 
Ere  the  roll  of  their  thunder  in  echo   died? 
What   trophies,    what   banners   are   floating-   free 
In   the  shadowy  depths  of  that  silent  sea!" 

But  when  the  poet  comes  down  with  his  mes- 
sage from  the  mountain  of  the  ideal  into  the  plain 
of  the  real,  he  regards  the  land  and  the  sea  with 


62  OREGON  LITERATURE. 

the   wisdom   of  a  philosopher;   so   he   is   reminded 
that  the  vast  ocean  will  roll  a  million  of  years  after 
the   man   is   gone   and    forgotten;    and   he   is    then 
surprised — yea,    astonished — at    himself    for    having 
presumed  to  ask  these  questions;  and  conscientious 
as  he  is  conscious,  he  hastens  to  acknowledge — 
"It  were   vain    to  ask,    as    thou  rollest    afar, 
Of  banner,  or  mariner,   ship  or  star; 
It  were  vain  to  seek  in  thy  stormy  face 
Some   tale  of  the  sorrowful   past   to   trace. 
Thou  art   swelling-  high,   thou   art  flashing  free, 
How  vain  are  the  questions  we  ask  of  thee!" 

Again    the    wave    demands    his    attention;    it    re- 
cedes, but  is  followed  by  another;  by  a  third;  then 
by  a  fourth,   a  fifth,   a  sixth;   and  then   comes   the 
seventh   that   overrides   them   all.     This   is   in   turn 
overwhelmed     by    another    seventh;      and    so     on 
throughout  the  days.     Like  the  true  poet,  he  again 
drinks   in   a  lesson  as   a  thinks  of  the   Napoleons, 
the    Caesars,    the     Alexanders,    that    were     over- 
whelmed by  some  higher  wave  in  the  tide  of  human 
affairs;   and  he  teaches  us  the  vanity  of  ambition, 
and  the  certainty  of  death,  as  he  applies  the  lesson 
to  himself  in  these  words — 
"I,  too,   am  a  wave  on  a  stormy  sea; 
I,   too,   am  a  wanderer,   driven  like  thee; 
I,    too,   am   seeking  a  distant  land, 
To  be  lost  and  gone  ere  I  reach  the  strand; 
For  the  land  I  seek  is  a  waveless  shore, 
And  they  who  once  reach  it  shall   wander  no   more." 


OREGON  LITERATURE.  63 


TROUBLE. 


Gov.  Geo.   L.   Curry. 


With  aching  hearts  we  strive  to  bear  our   trouble, 

Though  some  surrender  to  the  killing  pain ; 
Life's   harvest-fields   are   full   of   wounding   stubble, 

Tto  prove  the  goodness  of  the  gathered   grain. 
With   aching  hearts   we  struggle  on    in    sorrow, 

Seeking  some   comfort   in   our  sorest  need; 
The   dismal   day   may   have   a   bright    to-morrow, 

And   all   our  troubles  be  as    "precious    seed." 
As  precious   seed  within  the   heart's   recesses, 

To   germinate   and   grow   to    fruitage   rare, 
Of  patience,   love,    hope,   faith   and  aM   that   blesses, 

And   forms   the   burden    of   our    daily    prayer. 
With   aching  heart  we   cling   to   heaven's   evangels, 

The  beautiful,   the  good,   the  true,   the  pure, 
Communing  with   us  always  like  good  angels, 

To  help  us  iu  the  suffering  we  endure. 
Indeed,   to   suffer  Tind  sustain   afflictions 

Is  the   experience  which   we  all   acquire; 
Our   tribulations    are   the   harsh    restrictions 

To  consummations  we  so  much  desire. 
With   aching  hearts  life's   battle   still    maintaining, 

The  pain,   the  grief,    and  death   we  comprehend, 
As  isisues  we  accept   without   complaining, 

So   weary   are   we   for   the    end. 
Alas!   so  weary,   longing  for  the   ending, 


64  OREGON  LI1ERA  TURE. 

For   that   refreshing   rest— that    precious    peace, 
That   common    heritage,    past    comprehending, 
When  all  the  heart-aches  shall  forever  cease. 


"ANGELS    ARE    WAITING    FOR    ME." 

A  saint  whose  wearied  body  rests  in  the  silent 
city  crowning  a  little  Oregon  hill,  and  whose 
sacred  memory  is  a  precious  legacy  to  those  who 
survive  her,  and  whose  blessed  example  like  an 
angel's  touch  gently  impels  heavenward,  caught  a 
few  glimpses  of  the  higher  heaven  from  the  heaven 
she  lived  in  here  below;  and  before  the  final  hour 
came,  gave  expression  in  poetic,  psalm-like  lan- 
guage to  her  rapture  upon  the  visions  she  beheld. 
These  utterances  were  entrusted  to  a  youth  who 
wove  them  into  the  poetry  of  men;  but  often  when 
I  have  read  them,  I  have  been  unable  to  forego 
the  felicity  of  feeling  that  they  were  the  words 
of  one  whose  body  was  on  earth  while  her  soul 
was  already  visiting  the  eternal  city. 

After  the  poem  descants  briefly  upon  her  de- 
parture from  the  home  of  her  birth  to  a  far-distant 
land  to  share  with  the  loved  ones  of  earth  in 
bearing  the  burdens  and  toil  for  Him  who  bled  for 
our  wrong,  in  the  full  consciousness  of  a  glorious 
victory,  she  says:  "His  peace  as  a  river  now  flows 
through  soul  and  body  so  free  that  glory  abounds 
in  my  heart  while  angels  are  waiting  for  me." 


OREGON  LITER  A  TURE.  65 

To  me,  that  sounds  like  the  poetry  of  angels;  and 
she   continues: 

"The  Bible  is  plain  to  me  now; 

For   Jesus  explains   as  I   read, 
And  lines  for  me  verses  ne'er  sung,— 

With  manna  my  spirit   they  feed! 
'     "There's  such  a  bright  light  round  the  cross; 

And  over  the  dark,   stormy  sea, 
The  friends  who  before  me   have  gone 

Are  angels   now   waiting,  for    me.' 

"Among  the  long  ranks  that  they  form 

In    Glory,    my    Savior    there   stands 
With  multitudes  grand,   who  are  saved, 

And  marching  in  beautiful  bands; 
'They're  coming  in   thousands'   with  Him; — 

Those  bright  ones  o'er  there   can  you   see, 
Whose   luster  illumines   that   throng? 

Those  'angels  are  calling  for  me.' 

f 
"Those    mansions    and   cities    so    fair 

Are   teeming   with    armies    in    white, 
The   courts  will  be  empty  of  them — 

'They're  coming  to  me'    in   their  flight; 
'More  coming!'   Now   'Glory   to   God!' 

'They  stand  by  my  bed.'    'Can  you  see?' 
'I'm   waiting;   yes,   waiting;'   because 

Those    'angels    are    coming    for    me.'  " 


66  OREGON  L1TERA  TURK. 


HOMER    DAVENPORT. 

When  a  great  genius  is  just  rising  to  view,  the 
astonished  world  says,  "Who  would  have  expected 
it?"  So  it  was  said  of  Homer  Davenport  who  rose 
out  of  Silverton  to  glitter  among  the  artists  of 
the  world.  Busy  men  and  women  who  had  min- 
gled with  his  modest  ancestry  for  decades  could 
scarcely  realize  that  there  had  been  generations 
of  unassuming  greatness — a  veritable  wealth  of 
mind — that  time  and  circumstances  and  God 
had  wrought  into  a  genius.  They  were  glad — 
so  glad  they  could  hardly  believe  it — yet  they  were 
wont  to  think  of  him  as  a  sort  of  intellectual 
accident  emanating  from  nothingness  and  spring- 
ing suddenly  into  the  front  ranks  of  modern  art- 
ists. But,  my  friends,  Genius  comes  not  in  this 
manner.  "Who  is  this  Nast?"  was  the  burning 
question  whispered  throughout  the  world.  "Whence 
came  he?"  rung  down  the  electric  lines  of  the  con- 
tinents. "How  came  he  by  this  God-given  genius?" 
was  the  question  of  the  hour.  And  the  answer 
came  "He  is  a  man  from  an  Oregon  hamlet — a 
child  of  genius — the  evolution  of  a  talented  family 
and  favorable  environments."  His  mind  is  the  nat- 
ural offspring  of  an  ancestry  that  has  given  the 
world  great  men  and  women  in  almost  every  de- 
partment of  human  endeavor;  and  his  mind  was 
early  nurtured  upon  the  pictures  he  beheld  in  the 
scenes  of  Oregon,  and  he  fed  upon  the  nourishment 
of  the  ages.  Then  you  cast  your  eye  upward  to  be- 


HOMER  DAVENPORT. 


OREGON  LITERATURE.  67 


hold  the  onward  march  of  Genius,  and  you  find  him 
there— a  great  man  who  puts  life  and  truth  and 
magic  into  every  touch  of  his  wonderful  brush. 
This  is  Homer  Davenport,  the  greatest  cartoonist 
of  America. 


THE    MOTHERS    OF    MEN. 

The   bravest   battle    that   ever   was   fought! 

Shall   I    te'l   you   where    and   when? 
On  the  map  of  the  world  you  will  find  it  not- 

'Twas    fought   by  the   mothers   of   men. 

Nay,    not   with  canncn   or   battle   shot, 

With    swiord   or   nobler   pen! 
Nay,    not   with    eloquent    words    or   though, 

From    mouths    of    wonderful    men! 

But  deep   in  the   walled-up   woman's   heart   - 

Of   woman   that  would   not  yield, 
But   brave'y,    silently,    bore   her   part— 

Lo,    there   is   that   battle  field! 

Nb    marshalling   troup,    no    bivouac    song, 

No   banner   to   gleam   or  wave; 
But  oh!    these  battle   they   last   so   long— 

From   babyhood   to-  the   grave. 

Yet  faithful   still  a.s  a  bridge  of   stars, 
She  fights  in   JUT  walled-up  town— 


68  OREGON  LITERA  TURE. 

Fig-hts  on  arfd  oh   in   the  end: ess  wars, 
Then  silent,   unseen,   goes  down. 

Oh,   spotless   woman  in   a   world   of    shame; 

With    splendid   and   silent   scorn, 
Go  frack  to   God  as   white   as  you   came — 

The  kinglies<t   warrior  born! 

— Joaquin  Miller. 


AN    EVENING    ON    THE    PLAINS. 

But  time  passes;  the  watch  is  set  for  the  night, 
the  council  of  the  old  men  has  broken  up,  and 
each  has  returned  to  his  own  quarter.  The  flute 
has  whispered  its  last  lament  to  the  deepening 
night.  The  violin  is  silent,  and  the  dancers  have 
dispersed.  Enamored  youth  have  whispered  a 
tender  "good  night"  in  the  ear  of  blushing  maidens, 
or  stolen  a  kiss  from  the  lips  of  some  future  bride 
— for  Cupid  here  as  elsewhere  has  been  busy  bring- 
ing together  congenial  hearts,  and  among  these 
simple  people  he  alone  is  consulted  in  forming 
the  marriage  tie.  Even  the  doctor  and  the  pilot 
have  finished  their  confidential  interview  and  have 
separated  for  the  night.  All  is  hushed  and  re- 
pose from  the  fatigues  of  the  day,  save  the  vigilant 
guard,  and  the  wakeful  leader  who  still  has  cares 
upon  his  mind  that  forbid  sleep. 

He  hears  the  ten  o'clock  relief  taking  post  and 
the  ''all  well"  report  of  the  returning  guard;  the 


OREGON  LITERATURE.  69 

night  deepens,  yet  he  seeks  not  the  needed  repose. 
At  length  a  sentinel  hurries  to  him  with  the  wel- 
come report  that  a  party  is  approaching — as  yet  too 
far  away  for  its  character  to  be  determined,  and  he 
instantly  hurries  out  in  the  direction  seen.  This 
he  does  both  from  inclination  and  duty,  for  in  times 
past  the  camp  had  been  unnecessarily  alarmed  by 
timid  or  inexperienced  sentinels,  causing  much 
confusion  and  fright  amongst  women  and  children, 
and  it  had  been  made  a  rule,  that  all  extraordi- 
nary incidents  of  the  night  should  be  reported 
directly  to  the  pilot,  who  alone  had  the  authority 
to  call  out  the  military  strength  of  the  column,  or 
so  much  of  it  as  was  in  his  judgment  necessary  to 
prevent  a  stampede  or  repel  an  enemy. 

To-night  he  is  at  no  loss  to  determine  that  the 
approaching  party  are  our  missing  hunters,  and 
that  they  have  met  with  success,  and  he  only  waits 
until  by  some  further  signal  he  can  know  that  no 
ill  .has  happened  to  them.  This  is  not  long  want- 
ing. He  does  not  even  await  their  arrival,  but 
the  last  care  of  the  day  being  removed,  and  the 
last  duty  performed,  he  too  seeks  the  rest  that 
will  enable  him  to  go  through  the  same  routine 
to-morrow.  But  here  I  leave  him,  for  my  task 
is  also  done,  and,  unlike -his,  it  is  to  be  repeated 
no  more.  — Jesse  Applegate. 


A   GRAVE    IN   THE   WILDERNESS. 
A  humble    grave   was   dug  under   the   spreading 


70  OREGON  LITERATURE. 


boughs  of  a  venerable  oak,  and  there  the  remains 
were  followed  by  a  silent,  thoughtful  and  solemn 
company  of  emigrants,  thus  so  forcibly  reminded 
that  they  too  were  travelers  to  that  land  "from 
whose  bourne  there  is  no  return."  The  minister 
improved  the  occasion  to  deliver  to  us  an  impres- 
sive sermon  as  we  sat  around  that  new  made  grave 
in  the  wilderness,  so  well  calculated  to  impress 
upon  the  mind  the  incalculable  importance  of  seek- 
ing another  and  better  country,  where  there  is  no 
sickness  and  no  death. 

I  had  often  witnessed  the  approach  of  death; 
sometimes,  marking  his  progress  by  the  insidious 
work  of  consumption;  and,  at  others,  assailing  his 
victim  in  a  less  doubtful  manner.  I  had  seen  the 
guileless  infant,  with  the  light  of  love  and  inno- 
cence upon  its  face,  gradually  fade  away,  like  a 
beautiful  cloud  upon  the  sky  melting  into  the  dews 
of  heaven,  until  it  disappeared  in  the  blue  ethereal. 
I  had  beheld  the  strong  man,  who  had  made  this 
world  all  his  trust,  struggling  violently  with  death, 
and  had  heard  him  exclaim  in  agony,  "I  will  not 
die."  And  yet  death  relinquished  not  his  tena- 
cious grasp  upon  his  victim.  The  sound  of  the 
hammer  and  the  plane  have  ceased  for  a  brief 
space;  the  ploughman  has  paused  in  the  furrow, 
and  even  the  school  boy  with  his  books  and 
satchel  has  stood  still,  and  the  very  atmosphere  has 
seemed  to  assume  a  sort  of  melancholy  tinge,  as 
the  tones  of  the  tolling  bell  have  come  slowly,  sol- 


OREGON  LITERATURE. 


emnly,  and  at  measured  intervals  upon  the  move- 
less air,  and  hushing  the  mind  to  breathless 
thoughts  that  fain  would  know  the  whither  of  the 
departed.  But  death  in  the  wilderness — in  the  sol- 
itude of  nature,  and  far  from  the  fixed  abodes  of 
busy  men,  seemed  to  have  in  it  solemnity  that  far 
surpassed  all  this. 
—Hon.  J.  Quinn  Thornton,  A.  M.,  D.  C.  L.,  LL.  D. 


THE  OREGON  REPUBLIC 
Penetrating  the  veil  and  looking  behind,  what 
do  we  realize?  Our  fellow  countrymen  and  women, 
few  in  numbers,  but  steadfast  in  purpose,  who  had 
been  forgotten  by  their  government,  yet  neglect 
could  not  weaken  their  loyalty  and  love.  Submit- 
ting patiently  to  that  injustice,  always  true  to 
birthright  and  origin,  they  carried  with  them  love 
of  republican  institutions,  had  established,  and 
upon  that  very  day  were  successfully  administering 
a  government  of  the  people,  by  the  people.  Ore- 
gon already  contained  within  it  an  infant  republic. 
Here  was  a  thriving,  loyal  American  common- 
wealth, started  by  children  of  the  great  republican 
household,  who,  though  for  a  time  discarded,  had 
ever  been  animated  with  unabated  zeal  for  the  glory 
and  grandeur  of  their  parent  government. 

When  I  contemplate  this  history,  this  undying 
devotion  to  fatherland,  this  patriotic  love  of  their 
native  institutions,  I  know  not  which  most  to  com- 


72  OREGON  LITERATURE. 


mend — their  implicit  confidence  in  the  title  of  their 
country  to  Oregon  which  they  never  failed  to  as- 
sert on  every  proper  occasion,  and  so  sure  were 
they  that  it  would  be  maintained,  their  patriotic 
avowal  was  that  the  government,  they  constituted 
their  trusteeship  of  the  territory,  should  only  con- 
tinue "until  such  time  as  the  United  States  shall 
extend  jurisdiction;" — their  signal  and  undying 
love  for  republican  institutions,  breathing  through 
every  line  of  the  fundamental  code  of  the  govern- 
ment they  founded;  or  their  eminent  conservative 
wisdom  as  displayed  in  that  system,  the  laws  en- 
acted and  their  administration.  How  truly 

"Each  man  made  hig  own  stature,  built  himself: 
Virtue  alone  outbids  the  pyramids, 
Her  monuments  shall  last  when  Bgypt,s   fall." 

— Elwood  Evans. 


THE    HOME    BUILDERS. 

A  voyage  of  adventure  brought  not  back  the 
golden  fleece,  and  the  argonauts  no  longer  poured 
over  the  Sierras  into  California,  nor  overflowed 
her  northern  hills  to  seek  fugitive  fortune  in  Ore- 
gon. The  home-builders,  too — blessings  on  them 
everywhere  and  forever! — whose  caravans,  freight- 
ed with  the  precious  burden  of  wife  and  children 
and  household  goods,  the  lares  and  penates  of  a 
gentler  than  a  Trojan  race,  had  whitened  the  desert 


OREG ON  L I TERA  TURE.  73 


with  a  constantly  increasing  stream  direct  to  Ore- 
gon. —Hon.  W.  Lair  Hill. 


THE  GOLD  FEVER. 

The  seething  mass  of  anxious  adventurers  was 
a  multitude  that  no  man  could  number.  This  burn- 
ing, insatiable  desire  to  reach  California  assumed 
the  form  of  an  epidemic.  It  was  not  bounded  by 
the  Atlantic  and  western  border.  This  yellow  fever 
prevailed  wherever  humanity  existed.  But  between 
them  and  the  gold  a  great  gulf  was  fixed.  The 
frowning  winter,  the  desolate  plains,  the  utter 
want  of  transportation  across  the  unknown,  un- 
tried wilderness,  were  all  that  prevented  men, 
women  and  children  from  a  stampede  that  would 
have  depopulated  and  left  vacant  and  tenantless, 
the  happy  homes  of  America.  The  ties  of  home 
and  sweet  domestic  bliss  were  now  engaged  in 
fierce  and  deadly  conflict  with  the  lion  powers  of 
Avarice.  The  old  and  the  young,  the  rich  and  the 
poor,  all  were  victims  of  the  prevailing  malady. 
— Hon.  F.  A*.  Chenoweth. 


HISTORIANS     AND      HISTORY      MAKERS. 

The  acts  of  those  who  preceded  us,  have  doubt- 
less contributed  to  our  edification.  Historians, 
philosophers  and  antiquarians  have  devoted  ages 


OREGON  LITERATURE. 


to  the  most  laborious  investigation  and  research, 
spreading  barrels  of  ink  over  tons  of  paper  in 
their  attempts  to  elucidate  incidents,  phases  and 
facts  which  might  and  '  have  been  preserved  by 
those  whose  lives  were  contemporaneous  with  the 
subjects  sought  to  be  investigated. 

A  correct  narration  of  the  condition,  situation 
and  surroundings  of  the  early  settlers  of  our  state 
will  be  of  interest  to  those  who  succeed  us.  Their 
mode  of  life,  dress,  manners,  occupation,  state  of 
their  manufactories,  agricultural  and  other  indus- 
tries, and  all  that  pertained  to  their  comparatively 
rude  and  primitive  condition  must  be  of  value  to 
their  successors  in  estimating  the  progress  and  ben- 
efits of  civilization. 

In  the  far-off  future,  when  the  "New  Zealander 
will  sit  upon  the  ruined  pier  of  London  bridge/' 
and  indulge  in  antiquarian  cogitations  relative  to 
the  past,  it  might  be  convenient  for  him  or  some 
other  delver  in  historic  mine,  to  refer  to  the 
archives  of  the  Oregon  Pioneer  Society  to  estab- 
lish the  fact  that  the  founders  of  our  state,  unlike 
Romulus  and  Remus,  derived  their  sustenance  from 
something  more  respectable  than  a  she  wolf. 

— U.  S.  Senator  J.  W.  Nesmith. 


A     GRANGER'S     LOVE     SONG. 

Come  to  the  grange  with  me,   love; 
Come  to  the  farm  with  me, 


OR  EG  ON  LI  TERA  T  VEE.  75 


Where  the  birds  are  singing  and  the  flowers  are  spring- 
ing, 
And  life   is  happy   and   free. 

While  the  wheat  grows  in  the  field,  love, 

And   the  fuel   is  cut  from   the  grove, 
Neither  want  nor  cold  shall  the  night  dreams  haunt; 

Only   plenty   and    comfort   and    love. 
Chorus. — Gome  to  the  grange  with  me,   love,   etc. 

We'/ll  build  our  home  by  the  hill,  love, 

Whence   the   spring   to   the   brooklet  flows; 
On   the  gentle  slope  where   the   lambkins   play 

In   the  scent  of   the  sweet   wild   rose. 
Chorus- 
In  the  labors,  joys,  and  cares  of  the  grange,  love, 

In  the  shelter  and   shade  of  the   grove, 
Life's   duties   we'll    meet    in    companionship    sweet, 

And  there   rest   from   our  labors   in  love. 
Chorus—  —John    Minto. 


A  STROLL  TO  ELMWOOD. 
Turning  toward  the  setting  sun,  we  left  Harvard 
Square;  and  strolling  along  a  mile  of  paved 
streets  and  modern  palaces,  reached  Elmwood,  the 
birthplace  and  home  of  James  Russell  Lowell,  the 
poet.  A  promenade  along  the  outer,  edge  of  the 
enclosure,  which  is  marked  by  a  fence  half  hidden 


76  OREGON  LITER  A  TURE. 

with  lilacs  and  clematis,  and  we  enter  the  old-fash- 
ioned gate,  where  we  obtain  the  first  full  view  of 
the  historic  mansion.  On  our  right  and  on  our 
left,  everywhere,  are  trees  and  shrubs  and  vines 
distributed  irregularly  over  a  closely  shaven  lawn 
that  skirts  away  as  far  as  the  eye  can  see  through 
the  dense  foliage. 

And  it  is  all  precious  to  us.  These  plants  have 
yielded  their  flowers  which  the  mother  plucked  and 
fondly  arranged  for  the  boy's  study.  This  wide- 
spreading  elm  was  set  out  by  the  elder  Lowell; 
that  acacia,  by  Agassiz,  who  loved  it;  that  spruce 
by  an  admiring  prince;  and  that  chestnut  was  plant- 
ed and  fostered  by  the  poet;  and  so  on  through  the 
gardener's  inventory.  All  these  were  placed  here 
for  the  poet,  and  he  was  ours;  hence  they  are  ours 
also,  and  we  love  to  linger  among  them. 

The  mansion,  which  is  a  structure  of  colonial 
times,  stands  before  us  as  a  mute  witness  of  the 
generations  of  patriotic  fathers  and  mothers  and 
children  who  have  grown  older  and  wiser  and  bet- 
ter under  its  sheltering  roof,  and  then  in  their  turn 
solemnly  and  silently  passed  away.  It  was  built 
in  1760,  and  has  ever  since  "been  the  home  of  Amer- 
ican nobility,  and  its  memories  are  dear  to  our 
people.  Did  I  say,  the  home  of  American  nobility 
since  1760?  No;  yes.  This  patriotic  family  gave 
Elmwood  over  to  the  government  in  1775,  and  it 
was  used  during  revolutionary  times  as  an  Amer- 
ican hospital,  it  is  true;  but  it  was  still  the  home 


tr" 

o 

o 


IT" 

O 
M 


OREGON  LITERATURE. 77 

of  American  nobility.  Nations  have  perished  in  a 
day,  but  the  family  tree  of  the  Lowells,  planted  in 
colonial  times,  survived  the  revolutionary  period, 
flourished  in  the  national  age  of  the  republic,  and 
made  Elmwood  a  noted  home  of  classical  poetry, 
and  patriotic  song. 

Why  should  not  this  be  a  home  of  patriotism  and 
poetry,  since  everything  around  and  about  it  indi- 
cates that  Cambridge  is  the  great  school  of  patriot- 
ism and  poetry?  We  have  just  passed  the  Charles 
on  whose  banks  stands  the  steepled  church  that 
signaled  the  midnight  ride  of  Paul  Revere;  undei 
yonder  elm,  Washington  took  command  of  the 
American  forces;  there  are  the  cemeteries  peopled 
with  the  good  and  the  great  who  died  for  freedom; 
beyond  is  the  home  of  Longfellow,  the  father  of 
American  literature;  and  a  thousand  other  influ- 
ences— among  which  is  Harvard,  the  first  univer- 
sity of  America — all  historic,  all  patriotic  all  poetic. 

In  response  to  a  stroke  or  two  of  the  old-fash- 
ioned knocker,  the  door  swings  open.  A  glance 
within  reveals  the  library,  the  desk,  the  tobacco 
knife,  the  pipe,  and  such  other  things  as  were  com- 
mon in  the  homes  of  the  Eastern  poets.  Paintings, 
mirrors,  statuary  and  souvenirs  from  representative 
men  and  countries  of  both  continents  adorn  the 
rooms  and  halls  of  the  palace.  All  the  appoint- 
ments are  such  as  would  especially  administer  to 
the  comfort  and  pleasure  of  a  plain  old  man,  who, 
as  a  polished  scholar,  had  won  distinction  in  the 


78  0  REG  ON  LI  TEE  A  T  URE. 


universities  of  New  England;  who,  as  a  gifted  poet, 
evolved  themes  that  rank  among  the  classics  of  the 
age;  and  who,  as  a  citizen,  has  been  honored  in 
every  quarter  of  the  globe;  and  yet  was  so  simple 
in  the  habits  of  his  life  that  when  he  became  weary 
at  the  end  of  his  journey,  he  tarried  at  the  foot  of 
the  hill,  and  chose  for  his  last  resting  place  a  spot 
in  the  shade  of  an  elm,  where  now  stands  an  only 
slab — the  plainest  in  all  the  great  cemetery. 

The  home  was  like  the  man;  for  what  the  home 
was  in  the  world  of  nature  and  art,  Lowell  was 
in  the  world  of  poetry  and  critical  study.  It  has 
become  a  part  of  his  own  life;  therefore  everything 
has  been  held  sacred  and  left  undisturbed,  that  we 
may  know  more  of  the  poet,  the  better  understand 
his  art,  and  come  closer  to  the  man.  No  one  need 
have  told  us  this,  for  it  is  one  of  the  things  the 
visitor  feels  without  knowing  why.  We  are  inter- 
ested in  all  that  we  see,  become  engaged  in  this 
and  that  particular  object,  forget  something  that 
has  taken  place,  and  then  heedlessly  cast  about 
thinking  that  he  has  just  completed  "The  Vision 
of  Sir  Launfal"  or  some  other  classic,  laid  aside  his 
pen,  and  stepped  out.  And  we  take  up  the  lap 
desk  seemingly  fresh  from  his  fingers;  and  the 
conversation  glides  on  while  we  linger  a  little 
longer,  unconsciously  awaiting  him  to  step  in 
again.  Thus  the  visit  moves  along  until  a  late 
hour,  when,  in  the  absence  of  the  poet,  we  are  given 
the  parting  hand  of  his  grandson;  and  we  take  a 


OREGON  LITERATURE.  79 


farewell   glance  at  the  home   of  the   most   cultured 
American  that  has  graced  the  court  of  Saint  James. 

— Anonymous. 


BUB     KARABOO. 

Say,    I'm  lonesome,    awful   lonesome   now, 
Since  my  chum,  goiod   chum   Bub  is  gone. 

There's  no  more  rompin'  in  the  mow, 
An',  no  more  playin'  'cept  by  me  alone. 

I  wisht  you'd  tell  me:  tell  me  do, 

Where's   my   chum,    good    chum    Bub    Karaboo. 

Oh!  I  an'  Bub  did  have  sich  times, 

In  the  ode  smimmin'   hole  'neath  the  maple   tree, 
Where  the  white-tailed  yaller-hammer  sung  his  chimes, 

An'    sweet   htoneysucklea  were   sipped   by    the   bee. 
Such   friends,   good  friends  you  bet  are   few, 
As   was  me  an'    my  chum,    Bub   Karaboo. 

In  the  ole  milk-house  where  the  spring  bubbled  up, 
An'    the   weepin'   wilier   switches   hung   down    low, 

We'd   slip   in    easy,    the   sweet   cream  sup, 
Then  pocket   some   cheese  an'   out  we'd   go. 

But    say,    whore's   Bub?    You    know,    don't    you, 

My   chum,   good    chum,    Bub   Karaboo? 

We  drove  the  milch  cows  up  the  lane, 
When  the  sun  went  down  behind  the  hill. 

We  gathered  the  eggs  for  sister  Jane, 
An'  carried  the  shucked  corn  to  the  mill. 


80 OREGON  LITERATURE. 

But  it's  all  done  now,   an'  I  wigh't  I  knew 
Where's    my   chum,    go>od    chum   Bub    Karaboo. 

But  somethin'  took  hold  uv  Bub  one  day, 
He'd   caught  somethin'   sickly,   so   people  said, 

On  the  gate  uv  his  house  just  over  the  way, 
Wus  hung  a   flag   all   shinin'    an'    red. 

Say,  what  was  the  trouble  an'   why'd  this  they  do, 

For   I   couldn't   see  good   chum   Bub   Karaboo? 

One  day  a  lot  uv  carriages  to  Bub's  house  went, 
An'   soon  filed  away  kinder  solem   an'   slow. 

lu  the  lead  uv  the  line,  as  on  sorrow  bent, 
Four  blacks  pulled  a  carriage;  and  there  were  people 
with    heads    bowed  low. 

I  didn't  see  Bub  when  they  passed,  did  you? 

So  where  was  he  anyway,  Bub  Karaboo? 

They  lined  to  the  graveyard  on   the  hill, 
Where   they  lingered   fer   an   hour   or   two, 

Then  the  blacks  came  back  with  a  hum  an'  a  buzz, 
I    thought  they   was   bringin'  back   Bub  Karaboo. 

But  they  wasn't.    So  tell  me,   what  did  they   do 

With    my    chum,    good    chum    Bub    Karaboo? 

— Dennisi  H.    Stovall. 


THE    PIONEERS    OF    1848. 

The  year  which  we  celebrate  marks  a  fruitful 
period  for  the  Pacific  Northwest;  1848  was  the 
turning  point  in  our  history.  Alternate  hopes  and 


OREGON  LITER  A  TURE.  81 

fears  had  moved  the  people  up  to  this  date.  There 
had  been  no  recognition  by  congress.  Laws  had 
been  enacted  and  executed  by  the  pioneers.  Soci- 
ety had  begun  to  organize  in  a  few  centers,  and 
public  sentiment  was  respected;  but  our  nation 
had  not  recognized  this  small  band  of  American 
citizens  on  her  extreme  frontier  along  the  Pacific 
ocean  until  1848.  The  earlier  pioneers — the  hunt- 
ers and  trappers,  the  missionaries  and  their  wives, 
and  the  immigrant  families  of  the  settlers — had 
found  the  path  and  opened  the  way  hither,  and 
offered  a  safe  and  welcome  home  to  all  new  comers. 
Great  was  their  task  and  nobly  they  completed  it. 

They  had  organized  the  provisional  government 
in  1842-4,  on  the  American  plan  of  equal  rights 
and  and  equal  justice  to  every  citizen,  and  had  in- 
cluded all  as  citizens  who  were  so  held  under 
state  and  national  laws.  They  had  ventured  the 
experiment  of  self-government  as  a  duty  of  self- 
protection,  and  not  in  disrespect  or  defiance  of 
congress  or  the  constitution.  Having  marched  two 
thousand  miles  westward  over  the  famed  "Amer- 
ican desert,"  and  over  three  mountain  ranges,  and 
still  standing  on  American  soil,  they  wished  no 
divorce  from  the  home  government,  but,  rather,  a 
stronger  union  with  it.  The  fires  of  patriotism 
burned  more,  not  less,  brightly  within  them  under 
the  force  of  their  long  and  painful  tramp  to  plant 
and  defend  the  "flag  of  our  nation"  on  this  Pacific 
frontier.  — Rev.  G.  H.  Atkinson. 


82  OREGON  LITERATURE. 


THE     OLD     PIONEERS. 

They     have    come     from     the    valley,     and     from     the 

mountains  down, 
They   are   gathered   from   the    country,    from   the   city 

and   the  town, 
They  came  to  swap  reminiscences  of  time  now  on  the 

wane, 
Of  the  anxious  months  of  danger,   of   "the  trip  across 

the  plains." 
Their   ranks   are  getting   thinner   and   their  forms   are 

bending  low, 
Their    eyes   are  growing   dimmer    and    their   locks    are 

white  as  snow, 
Give   them   every   comfort,    tho'    they   carry   well    their 

years, 
They    are    grand    old    men    and    women,     these    "Old 

Pioneers." 

Let  their  annual   reunions  continue  ever  on 

Until  the  last  old  pilgrim  among  them  is  gone! 

They  have  sown  the  golden  wheat  where  the  camas 
once  did  grow, 

And  the  palace  car  now  follows  the  trail  the  pack 
mule  used  to  go. 

The  schlpolhouse  takes  the  place  of  the  Indian 
"Wickeyup," 

And  they  who  wrought  the  change  deserve  the  "Gold- 
en Cup." 

Scatter  flowers  in  their  pathway,  adown  declining  years, 

They  are  grand  old  men  and  women,  these  "Old 
Pioneers."  — E.  S.  McComas. 


OREGON  LITERATURE.  83 


SWEET     OREGON. 

(As   sung   by    the   DeMoss    family,    official    song-writers 
of  the  World's  Columbian  Exposition,  Chicago,   U.   S. 
A.,   1893.) 
I'm   thinking  now   of   a  beautiful   land, 

Oregfon,    Oregon ; 
With    rivers   and   valleys   and   mountains   grand, 

Oregon,    sweet   Oregon ; 

From   the  mountain  peak   all  covered  with   snow, 
A  swift  crystal   streamlet  ever  doth  flow 
By  the   home  of  my  youth,   which  I    shall   adore, 

Oh!    Oregon,    my   home. 
Chorus — 

Oh  Oregon,   sweet  Oregon, 

My  native  home,   I   long  for  thee; 

My  native  home,    I  long  for  thee. 

I   think   of   the  forests   and   the   prairies    wide, 

Oregjon,    Oregon ; 
The  mines,   the  fish,  and   the  ocean   tide; 

Oregon,    sweet   Oregon ; 

Where  the  mighty  Columbia  rolls  down  to  the  sea; 
And  while  the  pines  are  ecluoing  in   the  breeze, 
Like  a  beautiful  dream   to"  my  memory   comes 

Sweet  Oregon  my  home. 

I  long  to  dwell   in  my   mountain  home, 

Oregon,    Oregon; 
Away   from   thy  vales  I   shall   never   roam, 

Oregon,    sweet   Oregon; 


84  OREGON  LITERA  TURE. 


I  sigh  for  thy  bountiful  harvest  a^aln, 

Thy  fruit  and  thy  calm  gentle  rain; 

And  thy  pure,   balmy  air,   which   wafts  fr^eJom's  blest 

song; 
Oh!    Oregon,    my   home. 

— Henry   S.    DeMoss. 


THE    JEWISH    MILESTONE. 

Let  us  then  reason:  If  the  unfolded  book  of 
nature  has  its  inspiring  lesson  for  a  poet's  invo- 
cation, how  much  more  should  the  mighty  vol- 
umes written  by  the  hand  of  Providence  invite  us 
to  profound  contemplation?  Our  Passover  stands 
forth  as  the  grandest  milestone,  as  the  epoch  that 
marks  the  starting  point  in  the  evolution  of  liberty. 
With  the  Passover,  Egypt  began  the  early  spring 
of  humanity,  still  wrapped  in  the  deadly  frost  of 
slavery.  Israel's  departure  from  Egypt  was  the 
starting  point  on  the  journey  to  Sinai,  over  whose 
ideal  peak  that  sun  should  rise,  whose  fire  and 
light  was  strong  enough  to  melt  every  iron  shackle 
and  stamp  every  man  with  the  image  of  his  Creator. 

Whether  celebrated  on  the  shores  of  the  Nile,  or 
on  the  hallowed  banks  of  the  Jordan,  by  a  Joshua 
or  Josiah,  in  the  days  of  exile  on  the  Euphrates,  or 
in  the  golden  era  of  the  Maccabeans  under  con- 
quering Rome,  or  its  dissolution,  whether  crouched 
in  dark  ghettos  or  hunted  by  intolerant  mobs — the 


OREGON  LITERATURE.  85 


Passover  remained  our  consecrated  milestone,  that 
inspires  us  to  heroic  endurance  and  perseverance  in 
the  cause  of  truth,  and  the  hopes  of  a  brighter 
dawn  on  the  horizon  of  mankind.  Passing  over  the 
streams  and  mighty  rivers  of  time,  and  from  mile- 
stone to  milestone,  set  by  grief  or  joy,  it  was 
the  ever-cheering  voice  of  Israel's  songs  that 
drowned  all  sorrow  and  aroused  anew  our  vigor, 
marching  to  tempo  of  time's  tread,  ever  nearer  and 
nearer  to  Israel's  goal.  The  old  and  withering 
walls  of  the  middle  ages  began  to  crumble  into 
dust  under  the  heavy  stroke  of  the  advancing  age 
of  reason.  With  every  breach  a  ne-w  passageway 
was  made  to  the  advanced  hosts  of  humanitarians. 
The  Jew  amongst  them  entered  the  cause  dearest 
to  him,  and  on  every  battlefield  he  proved  that  the 
heroism  of  the  Maccabees  was  still  abiding  in  his 
race. 

The  final  glory,  however,  has  not  yet  come. 
The  battle  is  still  going  on.  Here  and  there  and 
everywhere  social  questions  await  its  final  solu- 
tion. In  the  heat  of  the  combat  strange  revela- 
tions of  human  nature  are  brought  about.  Amongst 
these,  the  old  prejudice  has  concentrated  itself  in 
the  opposition  to  Jewish  freedom,  honestly  won 
in  the  last  2000  years.  But  this,  too,  will  succumb, 
and  the  last  blot  against  mankind  will  be  wiped 
out.  Meanwhile  we  must  not  desert  Israel's  old 
camping  grounds.  Our  holy  days  must  never  de- 
generate into  mere  feasting  days.  These  must 


OREGON  LITERATURE. 


more  than  ever  become  the  high  watchtowers  from 
which  to  hail  the  sign  of  ages,  and  from  which  shall 
float  forever  the  old  banner  of  Judaism,  cheering 
the  old  and  the  young,  and  summoning  the  true  and 
brave  to  the  old  song  of  the  Passover:  "O  give 
thanks  to  the  Eternal,  for  he  is  good,  for  unto 
eternity  endureth  his  kindness." 

—Rabbi    Bloch. 


WAR. 

'Extract  from  an  editorial  upon  the  threatened 
war  with  Chili.) 

Man,  in  all  ages,  has  been  the  most  destructive 
and  turbulent  animal  on  the  globe.  He  has  always 
delighted  more  in  excitement  and  war  than  in 
peace  and  the  pursuits  of  learning,  morality  and 
harmonious  development.  The  world  is  one  great 
field  of  carnage  where  the  armies  of  countless  ages 
have  marched  to  battle  and  where  millions  and 
hundreds  of  millions  have  been  slain  and  their 
bones  strewn,  layer  upon  layer,  over  every  conti- 
nent and  at  the  bottom  of  every  sea.  One  war  has 
followed  another,  in  regular  succession,  in  all  civ- 
ilized and  savage  nations,  as  one  wave  follows 
another  over  the  ocean.  *  *  *  The  United 
States  has  been  the  most  peaceable,  intelligent  and 
progressive  nation  of  which  history  gives  any  ac- 
count. But  the  spirit  of  war,  the  rattle  of  drums, 


OREG  ON  L I TERA  T  URE.  87 


the  sound  of  bugles,  the  neighing  of  prancing 
steeds,  the  clashing  of  steel,  the  roar  of  artillery 
and  all  the  symbols  of  war  of  ancient  times  thrill 
the  hearts  of  the  American  people  far  beyond  any 
other  passion  or  sentiment.  The  spirit  of  war, 
which  has  desolated  the  earth  in  all  ages,  is  not 
dead  but  only  slumbering  in  our  people.  We  have 
already  had  several  wars  during  our  brief  national 
existence  and  may  have  many  more.  The  people 
worship  warriors — great  fighters — for  more  than 
they  do  the  greatest  intellectual  and  moral  giants 
the  world  has  ever  produced.  No  man,  however 
great  he  may  have  been  intellectually  and  morally, 
has  ever  been  elected  president  of  the  United  States 
over  any  kind  of  a  military  hero.  And  no  party 
or  man  has  ever  opposed  a  war  in  this  country, 
just  or  unjust,  without  having  been  swept  out  of 
power  by  popular  indignation. 

— Hon.  Harrison  R.  Kincaid. 


ROSES    AND    LILIES. 


The  ruddy  rose,  amid  the  thorns 
And  leaflets  green  which  she  adorns; 
Sustains  her  charms,  preserves  her  grace, 
And   heavenward  lifts  her  liovely   face. 

Although   her  rough   companions   pierce, 
With  lances  keen  and  daggers  fierce, 


OREGON  LITERATURE. 


The  rose  unsullied  lives  and  dies 
As  do  the  brave,  the  true,   the  wise. 

And  though  in  life  one  oft  receives 

A  pang  that  sorely,  sadly  grieves, 

'Tis  sweet  to  know  that  roses  bloom 

Midst  winds  and  rain  and  thorns  and  gloom. 

From  out  their  bosoms  pure  as  snow, 

The  lilies  of  the  valley  grow; 

Their  leaves  are  still;  their  heads  they  bow, 

As  if  to  heaven  they  make  a  vow. 

Since  from  the  heart  the  actions  grow, 
A  duty  to  ourselves  we  owe, 
To  do  the  right,   and   that   in   love, 
Though  fading  here  to  bloom  above. 

The  roFe  adds  beauty  to  her  thorns; 

The  lily  pastures  green  adorns; 

The  world  conceals  its  faults  to  please, 

While  innocence  and  lilies  abound  in  the  leas. 

Aromas  from  these  flowers  unite, 
And  lure  our  prayers  to  yonder  height, 
Where  mingling  in  sweet  bliss  and  praise- 
Enriching  heaven  through  endless  days. 

Bloom  on,  bloom  on,   thou  lily  pale, 
In  meadow  gr<  en  and  fertile  vale; 
Thine  own  soft  colors  give  to  thee 
A  tender  look  of  modesty. 


OREG ON  L I TERA  TURE.  89 

Blush  on,  blush  en,   thou  ruddy  rose; 
Thy  crimson  face  with  beauty  glows: 
Pure   symbol   thou   of   a   sinless  breast, 
Where  truth  and  peace,   like  angels  rest. 


THE    MONEY    GETTER. 

The  gold  that  with   the   sunlight  lies 

In  bursting  heaps  at   dawn, 
The  silver  spilling  from  the  skies 

At  night   to  walk   upon, 
The  diamonds  gleaming  in  the  dew 
He  never  saw,   he   never  knew. 

He  got  some  gold  dug  from  the  mud, 

Some    silver    crushed   from    stones;; 
But  the  gold  was   red  with   the  dead   man's   blood, 

The   silver   black   with    groans; 
And  when  he  died  he  moaned  aloud, 
"They'll  make  no  pocket  in  my  shroud." 

— Joaquin  Miller. 


THE     HOME    OF    ART. 

There  is  an  old  poetic  land 

Of   purple  vales   and   violet   heights, 

Where   sculptors   wrought   and    marble   breathed 

And  thought  took  wildest,   widest  flights, — 

A   sea-girt   land   whiose   crystal   airs 


_90 OREGON  LITERATURE. 

Intoxicated  unawares, 

Where    mountain   peaks   fenced   out    the   world 

And  loneily  tribes  immortal  grew, 

Where   freedom  kissed  the  "budding   soul 

And  let  the  light  of  genius  through. 

O  land  of  Greece!   O  land  of  art! 

One  picture   of   a   race   confined 

To   God   and   nature,    till   it   snatched 

Joy  and  despair  for  all  mankind. 

Along  the  fair  Pacific  slope 
A   chain  of  sea-kissed,    sun-kissed  lands' — 
Green  orchards  bend   with   endless   bloom, 
Bright  rivers  roll  o'er  golden   sands; 
Like  sentinels  the  white  peaks  rise 
That  guard  this  new-world  paradise; 
Deep  in  her  valleys  genius  waits 
To  nurse  awhile  her  tropic  bloom 
That  yet  shall  burst  and  bear  abroad 
Immortal    cycles   of  perfume; 
Sierra's  heights,  Willamette's  vales, 
Thy   inland   seas   and   southland   sun 
As  fairer  yet  shall  yet  sturpass 
Old   Delphi's  fount  and   Helicon. 

—Eva  Emery  Dye. 


FEAR  INJURIOUS   TO   RIGHTEOUS  JUDG- 
MENT. 

The  judge  whose  judicial  action  is  influenced  by 
fear,    adds    official    delinquency    to    his    miserable 


MRS.  ABIGAIL  SCOTT  DUNIWAY. 


OREGON  LITERATURE.  91 

cowardice.  The  post  of  duty  should  not  be 
introduced  to  the  craven-hearted.  A  judge  who 
is  intimidated  from  doing  his  duty  by  the  outcries 
of  the  mob,  or  the  censure  of  public  opinion,  or 
the  unjust  criticisms  of  the  press,  betrays  his 
trust  and  fouls  the  fountains  of  justice.  Our  courts 
are  the  sanctuaries  of  our  liberties;  their  judges 
are  the  guardians  of  our  lives,  our  fortunes,  and 
our  honor.  They  must  have  the  courage  of  their 
convictions,  and  register  their  decrees  unawed  by 
the  hand  of  power,  uninfluenced  by  the  voice  of 
popular  clamor,  and  unintimidated  by  the  threats 
of  political  vengeance.  They  must  stand  as  im- 
movable as  a  rock  in  the  sea,  amid  the  rush  and 
roar  of  contending  passions. 

— W.   P.   Lord,   Governor. 


WOMAN    IN    OREGON    HISTORY. 

Orators  have  extolled  the  spirit  of  adventure 
characteristic  of  our  Anglo-Saxon  stock;  a  spirit 
which  led  men,  like  those,  to  hew  their  way 
through  a  perilous,  toilsome  pilgrimage  to  this 
summer  land  of  the  sun-down  seas.  But  many 
were  the  women,  daily  companions  of  these  men 
of  valor,  with  lives  equal  to  theirs  in  rectitude  and 
energy,  whose  names,  as  yet,  have  found  no  place 
in  song  or  story,  who  did  their  part  as  well  as  any 
man;  and  their  memory  remains  today  enshrined 


92  OREGON  LITERATURE. 


only  in  the  hearts  of  rustic  neighbors,  or  of  their 
descendants  who  knew  and  loved  them  in  their 
obscurity.  — Mrs.  Abigail  Scott  Duniway. 


A  BIT   OF    LOGIC. 

"I  never  knew  so  fine  a  population,  as  a  whole 
community,  as  I  saw  in  Oregon  most  of  the  time 
I  was  there.  They  were  all  honest,  because  there 
was  nothing  to  steal;  they  were  all  sober,  because 
there  was  no  liquor  to  drink;  there  were  no  misers, 
because  there  was  nothing  to  hoard;  they  were  in- 
dustrious, because  it  was  work  or  starve." 

— Peter  H.  Burnett. 


A    MAY    DAY    IN    OREGON. 

Nature  smiling  through  her  rills,  streams,  hills, 
valleys  and  mountains,  greets  us  this  morning  and 
welcomes  us  to  partake  of  her  bountiful  hospitality. 
How  beautiful  she  is.  Clothed  in  her  attractive 
habiliments  of  spring;  in  her  tender,  strong,  but 
gracious  reproduction  of  everything  in  her  king- 
dom for  the  sustenance  of  man.  Here  are  flowers 
of  every  hue  and  description,  filling  the  air  with 
fragrance;  the  woods  and  forests  are  made  attrac- 
tive by  the  shrill  notes  of  nature's  sweet  songsters. 
Spring,  in  all  her  beauty,  like  hope  in  its  innocent 
fullness,  charms  as  it  possesses  us,  filling  us  with 


OREGON  LITERATURE.  93 

the  promise  of  offerings  the  mind  craves,  and  be- 
speaks the  approach  of  an  abundant  harvest  for 
our  physical  well-being;  a  season  of  plenty  for  the 
husbandman,  his  fields,  flocks  and  herds;  a  season 
in  which,  with  a  light  heart,  he  may  go  forth  to 
the  hills,  valleys  and  fields  and  welcome  this  plen- 
teous outpouring  from  the  liberal  hand  of  the  great 
Giver  of  all  things. 

— Governor  S.   F.   Chadwick. 


THE   GROWTH    OF   OREGON. 

f  he  links  in  the  chain  of  personal  friendship  will 
again  be  brightened  by  those  of  us  who  long  ago, 
in  poverty  and  obscurity,  shared  the  common  toils 
and  dangers  incident  to  the  reclaiming  of  the  wilder- 
ness from  the  dominion  of  the  savages  and  wild 
beasts,  causing  it  to  "bud  and  blossom  as  the  rose." 
Those  of  us  who  have  passed  the  meridian  of  life 
can  hardly  realize  the  changes  that  have  taken 
place  under  our  observation  since  the  hopeful  days 
of  our  young  and  vigorous  manhood.  We  have 
witnessed  the  invasion  of  the  solitude  of  the  for- 
ests by  civilization.  We  have  seen  what  we  used 
to  know  from  our  school  geographies  as  "the  great 
American  desert,"  stretching  away  nearly  2,000 
miles  west  from  the  borders  of  the  old  republic  to 
the  Pacific,  dotted  all  over  with  cities,  towns  and 
rich  productive  farms.  The  domestic  cattle  of  the 


94  OREGON  LITERATURE. 


herdsman  now  graze  upon  the  thousand  hills  over 
which  we  once  saw  the  bison  and  wolf  roaming. 
Great  marts  of  trade  have  arisen  upon  spots  that 
it  only  seems  to  us  like  yesterday  were  inhabited 
by  hostile  savages  and  wild  beasts.  Agricultural 
and  mechanical  industries  have  sought  out  beauti- 
ful and  remote  places,  which  we  recollect  as  many 
days'  travel  from  the  nearest  settler's  cabin.  Com- 
merce, in  its  ceaseless  activity,  not  content  with 
vexing  all  our  rivers  with  the  steamer's  prow,  has 
sought  out  the  remote  valleys,  and  sent  the  iron 
horse  to  disturb  with  his  resounding  scream,  sol- 
itude which  had  existed  since  the  hour  of  creation. 
— U.  S.  Senator  J.  W.  Nesmith. 


TO    THE    OREGON    PIONEER. 

The  chilling  autumn  winds  blow  hard  upon  you 
now;  many  of  you  are  far  down  on  the  sunset  side 
of  Time  and  will  soon  pass  from  this  life.  Long 
will  you  and  your  acts  be  remembered  by  a  grate- 
ful posterity.  Your  early  settlement  of  this  coun- 
try and  the  many  dangers  and  difficulties  you  have 
encountered  will  outlive  the  English  language. 

— Colonel  John  Kelsay. 


THE    AMERICAN    SETTLER. 

The    American     settler    was    always    animated — 
often    it    may    have    been    unconsciously — with    the 


OREGON  LITERATURE.  95 

heroic  thought  that  he  was  pre-eminently  engaged 
in  reclaiming  the  wilderness — building  a  home — 
founding  an  American  state  and  extending  the  area 
of  liberty.  He  had  visions,  however  dimly  seen, 
that  he  was  here  to  do  for  this  country  what  his 
ancestors  had  done  for  savage  England  centuries 
before — to  plant  a  community  which  in  due  time 
should  grow  and  ripen  into  one  of  the  great  sister- 
hood of  Anglo-American  states,  wherein  the  lan- 
guage of  the  Bible,  Shakespeare  and  Milton  should 
be  spoken  by  millions  then  unborn,  and  the  law  of 
Magna  Charta  and  Westminster  Hall  be  the  bul- 
wark of  liberty  and  the  buttress  of  order  for  gen- 
erations to  come, 
erations  to  come.  — Matthew  P.  Deady. 


SENATOR     NESMITH     AND     HIS     TUTOR. 

Senator  Nesmith  always  was  passionately  fond 
of  books,  and,  notwithstanding  misfortune  and 
hardship,  at  that  time  exhibited  much  of  the  same 
high  spirit  and  love  of  fun  and  humor  that  he  al- 
ways retained.  The  tutor  he  remembered  most 
vividly  was  one  Gregor  MacGregor,  to  whom  he 
went  to  school  one  hundred  and  twenty  days  and 
received  one  hundred  thrashings.  He  admitted  it 
was  the  only  school  where  he  ever  learned  any- 
thing, and,  notwithstanding  a  genuine  feeling  of 
regard  for  his  old  tutor,  had  vowed  he  would 
thrash  him  if  he  was  ever  large  enough.  The  time 


96  OREGON  LITERATURE. 

came,  but  he  did  not  execute  his  threat.  In  the 
year  1860,  when  Mr.  Nesmith  went  to  the  United 
States  senate,  he  journeyed  into  New  England  to 
revisit  the  scenes  of  his  early  days.  He  went  to 
see  his  old  tutor,  and  said,  "Mr.  MacGregor,  I  have 
always  intended  threshing  you  in  return  for  your 
early  cruelty  to  me,  and  now  I  think  I  can  do  it." 
"Weel,  weel,  Jeems,"  said  the  auld  Scot,  "if  I  had 
given  you  a  few  more  licks  you  would  have  been 
in  the  senate  long  before  now." 

— Mrs.  Harriet  K.  M'Arthur. 


BINGER    HERMANN. 

The  following  extract  was  taken  from  Binger 
Hermann's  address  upon  "The  Life  and  Character 
of  the  Hon.  Charles  Crisp,  late  Speaker  of  the 
House  of  Representatives:" 

"Like  the  spire  on  some  lofty  cathedral  seen  at 
close  view,  when  neither  its  true  height  nor  its 
majestic  proportions  can  be  accurately  measured, 
so  is  ex-Speaker  Crisp,  in  according  to  him  his 
just  place  in  history  in  so  brief  a  period  after  his 
death.  His  splendid  life  work  will  shine  forth  in 
even  greater  luster  as  time  goes  on,  for  then  the 
mists  which  more  or  less  obscure  every  active, 
ambitious,  genius,  surrounded  by  enmities  and 
personal  antagonisms,  will  have  faded  away,  and 
exposed  to  view  the  intrinsic  worth  and  the  per- 


OREGON  LITERATURE.  97 

feet    symmetry,  the    strength    and    beauty    of    this 
well-balanced  life." 

Again  he  says:  "The  light  of  our  friend  was 
extinguished  while  it  was  yet  day — yea,  at  high 
noon.  He  was  still  in  the  midst  of  his  usefulness, 
and  no  premonition  pointed  out  the  untimely  end. 
The  summons  came,  and  the  work  was  done.  It 
is  difficult  to  realize  that  this  is  true.  Do  we  com- 
prehend the  uncertainty  of  life?  Is  it  so  frail? 
We  hear  the  answer  in  the  expiring  breath  and  see 
it  in  the  open  grave.  It  leaves  an  admonition  to 
us  all:  "Do  thy  work  to-day;  for  thee  there  may 
be  no  to-morrow."  May  we  not  hope  that  if  not 
here  there  may  be  that  to-morrow  in  the  celestial 
realms,  "in  that  temple  not  made  with  hands, 
eternal  in  the  heavens?" 


ASCENT  OF  MOUNT  HOOD. 

(The  following  is  the  closing^  of  an  account  of 
the  "Ascent  of  Mount  Hood  made  by  Rev.  H.  K. 
Hines,  D.  D.,  in  July  1866.  The  paper  was  pre- 
pared for  the  Royal  Geographical  Society  of  Lon- 
don, by  request  of  Sir  Robert  Brown,  of  Edinburg, 
Scotland,  and  was  read  before  that  society  which 
passed  unanimously  a  resolution  of  thanks  to  Dr. 
Hines,  which  was  conveyed  to  him  by  letter  with 
the  personal  compliments  of  Sir  Roderick  Marchi- 
son,  who  was  then  its  president.  It  is  given  as  a 
specimen  of  Dr.  Hines'  descriptive  writing.) 


OREGON  LITERATURE. 


Standing  upon  the  summit  of  the  mountains 
when  the  ethereal  brightness  of  the  early  northern 
summer  was  spread  over  the  landscape  near  and 
far,  it  was  given  me  to  behold  scenes  that  were 
their  own  and  only  parallel.  I  am  in  despair,  go 
where  I  may  on  earth,  of  finding  others  like  them. 
It  was  not  the  sublimity  of  the  great  mountains 
alone,  nor  yet  the  altitude  which  lifted  me  so  high 
above  the  rolling,  billowy  breast  of  the  great  ranges 
sleeping  their  rocky  slumbers  so  far  beneath  my 
feet,  eastward,  westward,  southward  and  northward 
away  to  the  far  and  blue  horizon.  It  was  not  the 
reaching  in  and  out  of  the  great  glittering  river- 
flow  which  cleft  mountain  from  mountain  like  a 
silver  sea,  and  seemed  ever  listening  to  the  whis- 
pering forth  and  back  of  tempest  and  lightning 
from  pinnacle  to  pinnacle  far  above  its  sleeping 
sweetness.  It  was  all  these,  and  much  more,  aggre- 
gating and  blending  their  sublimities  in  a  creation 
of  indescribable  grandeur  before  and  below  me. 
And  then,  above,  the  sky  seemed  so  near!  almost 
within  the  touch  of  my  fingers.  Where  I  had  so 
often  seen  the  clouds  wander  on  their  airy  journeys 
so  far  above  was  now  as  far  below.  They  were 
silver-flecked  robes  wrapping  the  icy  foot  of  the 
mountain,  and  I  stood  far  on  their  sunward  side 
and  gazed  down  on  their  shining  broidery  of  in- 
finite brightness.  And  yonder,  near  a  hundred 
miles  northward,  the  storm-king  broke  his  clouds 
and  dashed  his  thunderbolts  in  harmless  violence 


OREGON  LITERATURE. 


against  the  rocky  sides  and  icy  glaciers  of  Mount 
Adams,  whose  peaks  glowed  in  unclouded  light 
above  the  swift  beat  of  the  storm.  The  hour  was 
auspicious,  as  if  chosen  of  God,  in  which  to  greet 
the  footsteps  of  mortal  where  few  but  the  Immortal 
had  ever  trod  before.  It  was  a  glorious  welcome 
to  this  colossal  masterpiece  of  His  creation. 

Yonder,  two  hundred  miles  to  the  north,  the 
huge,  rugged,  inverted  icicles  of  Mount  Baker 
pierce  the  snowy  drifts  fallen  around  their  base, 
while  in  the  intervals  between  are  deep  ravines, 
vast  gorges,  and  rude,  craggy  peaks,  as  if  the  earth- 
quakes had  taken  this  whole  western  world  in 
their  frenzied  arms  and  tossed  its  mightiest  rocks 
in  wild  disorder  across  the  plains.  South,  another 
hundred  miles,  over  the  deep  chasms  of  rivers,  and 
the  dread  blackness  of  vast  lava-piles  frozen  into 
rock  by  the  winter  of  ages,  Diamond  Peak  seems 
almost  a  rival  to  the  mountain  on  which  I  stand. 
Eastward,  in  the  foreground,  sweep  far  away  the 
golden  plains  of  the  Des  Chutes,  John  Day  and 
Umatilla  rivers,  enframed  within  the  pmey  crests 
of  the  great  Blue  Mountain  range,  a  hundred  and 
fifty  miles  distant.  On  the  west  the  evergreen  sum- 
mits of  the  Coast  range  cut  clear  against  the  blue 
sky,  with  the  Willamette  valley,  unsurpassed  MI 
beauty  on  the  earth,  a  hundred  miles  in  length, 
sleeping  in  quiet  loveliness  at  their  feet.  The 
broad,  silver  belt  of  the  Columbia,  without  a  peer 
in  grandeur  and  purity  on  the  continent,  winds 


100  OREGON  LITERATURE. 


down  through  its  bordering  of  sunlit  vales  and 
shaded  hills  towards  the  ocean,  which  I  see  blend- 
ing with  the  blue  of  the  horizon  through  the  broad 
vista  between  the  lofty  capes  that  sentinel  its  en- 
trance to  the  sea,  an  hundred  and  fifty  miles  away. 
Within  these  almost  measureless  limits,  which  I 
had  but  to  turn  upon  my  heel  to  sweep  with  my 
vision,  was  every  variety  of  vale  and  mountain,  lake 
and  prairie,  bold,  beetling  precipices  and  gracefully 
rounded  summits,  blending  and  melting  into  each 
other,  and  forming  a  whole  unutterable  magnif- 
icence. 

Now,  as  often  as  thought  recurs  to  the  moment 
when  I  stood  upon  that  awful  height,  the  same 
awe  of  the  Infinite  God  "who  setteth  fast  the  mount- 
ains, being  girded  with  power,"  comes  over  my 
soul.  I  praise  Him  that  He  gave  me  strength  to 
stand  where  his  power  speaks  with  words  few  mor- 
tals ever  heard,  and  the  reverent  worshippings  of 
mountains  and  solitudes  seem  ever  flowing  up  to 
His  Throne. 


UNIVERSAL      EDUCATION. 

When  many  people  at  the  same  time  manifest 
great  interest  in  an  object,  a  strong  current  of  pop- 
ular opinion  sets  in  towards  that  object — an  irre- 
sistible current.  When  the  balance  of  ignorance  in 
a  community  is  greater  than  the  balance  of  know- 


OREGON  LITERA  TURE.  101 


ledge,  it  is  certainly  time  that  the  current  should 
be  formed.  Yes,  even  before  the  community  be- 
gins to  suffer  for  want  of  knowledge. 

TKe  interest  manifested  in  education  by  this 
country  is  an  indication  of  our  high  appreciation 
of  the  necessity  and  benefits  of  schools.  The 
schools  are  a  power  for  good.  Whatever  a  citizen 
can  do  to  aid  popular  education,  aids  the  develop- 
ment of  the  community  in  which  he  lives;  aids  it 
materially  as  well  as  spiritually. 

I  would  beg  leave  to  state  that  the  moral  and 
intellectual  welfare,  that  the  material  welfare  of  this 
mighty  nation  is  in  the  hands  of  the  school  teach- 
ers— is  dependent  upon  the  education  of  its  citizens. 

The  safety  of  our  republican  and  democratic  form 
of  government  will  be  found  in  universal  education. 
It  is  not  enough  to  teach  reading,  writing,  and 
arithmetic,  but  philosophy,  literature,  aesthetics  and 
higher  culture  in  all  the  branches  of  human  know- 
ledge. The  foundation  of  our  educational  estab- 
lishment was  laid  on  a  rock  near  the  Atlantic- 
additions  to  the  original  have  been  built  until  now 
it  reaches  the  far-off  Pacific.  May  the  structure 
rise  and  rise  until  it  reaches  Heaven. 

— Prof.  B.  J.  Hawthorne. 


GEORGE    WASHINGTON. 

(Extract  from  address  delivered  upon  the  looth 
anniversary     of     Washington's     inauguration     as 


102  OREGON  LITERATURE. 


president  of  the  United  States). 

We  live  in  a  land  of  promise  and  beauty.  Our 
state  is  on  the  threshold  of  a  great  career.  We 
are  rapidly  increasing  in  population,  wealth  and 
power.  Our  thoughts  stretch  away  in  wonder  at 
what  Oregon  will  be  when  this  celebration  is  re- 
peated at  the  end  of  another  hundred  years.  Noth- 
ing is  necessary  to  stimulate  the  material  progress 
of  our  state,  but  eternal  vigilance  is  the  price  of 
moral  character.  Our  fields  may  excel  in  the  fruits 
of  the  earth,  our  mountains  unbosom  their  mineral 
riches,  our  commerce  bring  the  wealth  of  foreign 
lands  to  our  shores;  but  all  these  will  be  as  dross 
if  they  pour  their  treasures  into  the  lap  of  a  de- 
bauched and  degraded  people.  Oregon,  with  all 
its  advantages,  may  aspire  to  stand  in  moral  com- 
parison among  her  sister  states,  as  Mount  Hood 
stands  among  the  other  mountains,  robed  in 
whiteness  and  purity.  To  put  our  young  state 
upon  this  eminence  should  be  the  great  ambition 
of  our  people.  Let  us  labor  to  this  end.  Let  the 
rich  man  give  his  money,  the  intellectual  man  his 
learning,  and  all  others  their  influence,  to  build  up 
our  state  upon  the  solid  foundations  of  intelligence 
and  virtue.  Money  and  merchandise  are  transient 
and  perishable;  but  this  is  something  that  moth 
and  rust  cannot  corrupt,  nor  thieves  break  through 
and  steal.  Let  us  do  our  full  duty  in  this  respect, 
and  future  generations  will  be  as  grateful  to  us 
as  we  are  to  Washington  and  his  compeers,  and 


GEORGE  H.  WILLIAMS,  AUTHOR  OF  "OCCASIONAL  ADDRESSES.' 


OREGON  LITERATURE.  103 

when  we  are  gone  we  shall  live  on  in  our  influ- 
ence, and  our  good  works  will  smell  sweet  and 
blossom  in  the  dust. 

On  the  banks  of  the  Potomac,  in  the  City  of 
Washington,  stands  a  monument  to  the  memory 
of  him  who  has  been  affectionately  called  the  father 
of  his  country.  Towering  above  the  dome  of  the 
capitol,  the  highest  of  all  human  structures,  it 
represents  the  gratitude  of  a  great  nation,  and  the 
grandeur  of  a  great  life.  Every  state  has  a  stone 
in  that  monument,  indicative  of  its  hope  and  faith 
in  the  Federal  Union,  and  every  stone  symbolizes  a 
prayer  that  our  republic  may  withstand  sectional 
and  party  strife  as  this  majestic  pile  of  marble 
withstands  the  storm-clouds  that  break  upon  the 
summit.  To  us  and  to  all  posterity,  this  monu- 
ment makes  a  sublime  appeal  always  to  bear  in 
mind  that  the  only  way  that  our  nation  can  be 
preserved  is  to  transfuse  into  its  life  the  patriotism 
and  purity  that  graced  the  life  of  Washington. 
— George  H.  Williams,  ex-Attorney  General,  U. 
S.  A. 


CONCLUSION. 

The  literature  of  the  past  has  been  the  heavy 
substantial  foundation  material  to  be  used  as  the 
basis  for  the  literature  of  the  incoming  century,  the 
noble  superstructure  of  the  coming  ages.  With  the 
light  of  the  past  fifty  years  beaming  upon  us  we 


104  OREGON  LITERATURE. 


can  see  how  the  literature  of  the  pioneer  will  give 
strength  and  support  to  the  literature  of  the  future. 
Then,  along  with  other  influences,  we  shall  draw 
from  Grecian  art,  Italian  music,  German  tenderness, 
ness,  Spanish  passion,  Yankee  shrewdness,  French 
vivacity,  Irish  wit,  English  sense,  Indian  courage, 
and  Oregon  dreams  and  visions;  and  Oregon  lit- 
erature will  rank  as  American  literature,  which  is 
English  literature  under  a  different  sky. 

Of  the  future  literature  of  Oregon  it  may  be  said 
that  peace,  home,  and  prosperity  will  be  the  probable 
themes — themes  that  are  contemplated  in  the  quiet 
of  the  home,  and  enjoyed  by  the  really  progressive 
classes.  Agricultural  and  pastoral  life  will  not  be 
slighted.  Nor  will  the  sons  of  the  men,  who  made 
the  country,  permit  to  be  forgotten  the  legends 
incident  to  the  life  of  the  settler,  and  the  trials  of 
the  Indian  who  was  gradually  crowded  out  of  his 
home  that  we  might  be  favored.  We  have  our 
Minnchahas,  our  Niagaras,  our  mountain  chains, 
wonderful  caves,  and  delightful  scenes  awaiting  the 
touch  of  the  pen  and  the  brush  of  the  artist  and 
the  poet.  And  while  there  has  been  enough  suf- 
fering and  privation  already  endured  in  the  history 
of  our  state  to  quicken  the  heart  and  fire  the  imag- 
ination of  the  orator  and  the  poet,  culture  and 
schools  will  temper  the  sentiment  with  philosophy 
and  adorn  it  with  artistic  beauty;  and  as  a  result, 
the  future  Oregonian  bids  fair  to  live  that  higher 
literary  life  which  it  is  given  every  man  in  this 
land  to  enjoy. 


